Dark Goes The Night
by Keesha
Summary: Athos' demons come out to haunt him. Can his brothers save him from his self-induced fate?
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note: Welcome aboard! This is a multi-chapter fanfic that mostly stays within canon. I will endeavor to update on a regular basis. Athos is the central character, though all the boys will come into play at some point. After all, they are the Inseparables._

 _As Porthos says, praise and glory are two of my favorite things, so feel free to post reviews. I'm good with constructive criticism too. I don't have a beta, other than my dog, and she easily swayed by a cookie. When you find something incredibly stupid, and you will, please feel free to let me know so I can correct it. I also freely admit I have a love/hate affair with the semi-colon, the comma and the split infinitive. I get the period and the colon. I also have been accused of manufacturing some strangely structured sentences. One last note, my_ _spell checker and I have dueled over d'Artagnan verses D'Artagnan and it bested me at times, so please excuse the occasional capital D._

 _The first chapter, a short one, sets the stage._ _Hope you enjoy._

 _Usual disclaimer. Don't own them. Just playing with them and will put them neatly back on the shelf when I am done._

* * *

CHAPTER 1

Had Aramis known what the future would bring, he wouldn't have laid a restraining hand on d'Artagnan's arm, when the man started after Athos that fateful evening. However, a gentle shake of Aramis' head and a quietly spoken 'leave him', halted the youngest Musketeer in his tracks. Athos remained unaware of the little scene playing out behind him, as he brusquely strode out of the Garrison yard, his face as dark as the night that was descending upon France.

Athos' mood over the last two days had grown increasingly obscure and brooding, a fact that did not go unnoticed by his companions. Generally, the Musketeer was known to be moody, flashing quickly between emotions, but always settling back into his default of somberness. An occasional twitch of the lips or smirk might be displayed, but genuine, full-hearted smiles rarely graced his bearded mouth, and when, by the miracle of God they did, it was only for a fleeting moment. Athos believed in courage, duty, honor, integrity, loyalty, respect, and service to his country and his fellow man. What he didn't believe in was allowing himself to escape his self-imposed hell to experience happiness.

"Will he be alright?" d'Artagnan inquired of Aramis, as he watched his mentor fade into the night.

"When is he ever?" Aramis' eyes tracked Athos' departure then focused back on the lad from Gascony. "But he won't thank you for asking or worrying. Not this night. There is something more troubling than usual, pulling at Athos' soul. None of us can stop it tonight, nor I fear, survive its' caliginous shadow."

Unbidden, a little shudder rippled thru Aramis' graceful frame. "No, we best let him go on his own, for now. Porthos will check on him later, retrieve him if need be, and ensure he safely makes it back to his quarters. Sleeping in the gutter…" Aramis didn't finish his sentence but he didn't need too. It was no way for one of the finest swordsmen in France to end up.

Clapping a hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder, Aramis shook off his solemnity and smiled. "Come. Porthos is playing cards tonight with the Red Guard. A good time should be had by all and perhaps a chance for a bit of profit."

Though he could no longer see Athos, d'Artagnan's gaze remained fixed on the inky sky beyond the Garrison's arched gateway. He alone had witnessed what had happened at the Comte de la Fère's estate in the country, on another dark night that had nearly erased Athos' presence from this world. He had learned then, and didn't forget now that Athos, for all his noble qualities, had the capability to self-destruct.

While the other Musketeers knew in general terms, what happened that night, d'Artagnan, bound by the entreatment of Athos, hadn't told them the whole tale of what had transpired. Aramis and Porthos knew the mansion had been destroyed, but not that Athos had nearly died. Even if d'Artagnan had been able to speak freely of the matter, mere words couldn't convey Athos' mental anguish, as he knelt in the tall grass outside the burning manor. The incident had shaken the younger man to his core, to see how a noble and honorable man that he respected and admired, could be brought to his knees by his own demons. It was a lesson that d'Artagnan couldn't forget; no one is beyond the abyss of madness, given the right circumstances.

For reasons that d'Artagnan couldn't identify, tonight had the whisper of an echo that reverberated back to that fateful night. Even as he finally turned away to follow Aramis, he wondered if he was making a grave mistake.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

A few bottles of wine to the wind already, Athos folded even more inside his self-afflicted hell, as he sat, alone, in the back corner of the dingy tavern, trying to drown his tormented mind. His anguished green eyes stayed fixed on the scarred, wooden table in front of him, though that was not what they were actually seeing. The scene he was living was one of five years in the past, the day of his brother's, Thomas, death. The blood, dark, rich, red, like the wine he was gulping, staining Thomas' shirt. His younger brother's eyes, vacant, staring into the nothingness that was his death.

Athos' traitorous mind then flashed to her. The once love of his life. Her face. A dichotomy. Lovely, yet evil. Helpless, yet harsh. The face, no matter how much he drank, he couldn't forget. He lowered his dark, tousled head, to rest on the filthy table and softly sobbed, not that anyone would hear in this noisy environment. He was so far into his cups that he didn't care what people saw or thought, only wishing he could escape the torment ripping at his soul.

It was in this position that Porthos found him, a few hours later, well after the midnight bell. At first, the musketeer with the menacing demeanor and curly, dark hair thought his quarry had passed out. But a somewhat strident calling of his name had Athos raising his weary, wine-soaked head to stare at him with bleary, red rimmed eyes. His voice, which commanded Porthos to leave him alone, was as rusty and scarred, as the bottom of an old kettle.

This wasn't Porthos' first rodeo and he bluntly ignored Athos' demands to leave. "Time to go," he declared, as he approached the table where Athos was sprawled.

It truly hurt Porthos to see his friend in this condition, in a place such, as this dirty tavern. The seediness of the place spoke volumes to just how low Athos had let himself sink this night. It wasn't who the man really was and once again, as he had countless times in the past, Porthos cursed the demons that could do this to his brother-in-arms.

Athos mumbled a few indistinct words, which Porthos didn't catch nor care if he heard. No matter what Athos' opinion on the subject, they were going home. This self-crucifixion had gone on long enough and it was time to get him back to his rooms where the equally unpleasant process of sobering up could begin.

Porthos had learned from previous experience, there were two ways this evening could end. The first, and better of the two, was Athos' giving in and letting Porthos assist him out the door and down the bleak cobblestone streets, back to his room. The second, usually not as preferable unless Athos' was being a particular ass that night, was with the drunken man, unconscious by Porthos' fist, slunk over his shoulder, like a sack of potatoes, being carried home. Porthos really didn't care how it went down. Trying to get a drunken Athos to walk was nearly as laborious as carrying an unconscious Athos; six of one, half a dozen of the other, as the saying goes.

"So Athos," Porthos genially inquired, as he came to a halt alongside the table where Athos resided. "How are we going to do this tonight? Walking or riding?"

"I don't see a horse," Athos slurred, as he dropped his head, which he had momentarily lifted, at his friend's approach, back on his leather-clad forearms.

"Horse, no. Ass, yes. But, whatever. Are you going to get up and come with me, or am I going to take my nice fist here, bash in your soggy face, and sling you over my shoulder like an ugly wench."

"You wouldn't dare," said the voice from the tabletop.

"Come-on. You know I have before and I will again. In fact, I'm actually a bit pissed having to come get you tonight. You see, I was fleecing the Red Guards royally and…"

Athos' head snapped up, his eyes blazing. "I didn't ask you to come!" His furious green eyes radiated anger at the man casually standing in front of him, though it was really anger at himself, not Porthos. "Leave me alone!" His intoxication, momentarily burned off by rage, quickly returned, as he lowered his aching head again towards his chest. "Leave me," he half-demanded, half-begged.

Porthos, ignoring the tirade, laid a gentle hand, on the drunken man's shoulder. "Come my brother, it's time to go."

Porthos had no clue what an unfortunate choice of words he had just uttered. His compassionate speech and act of kindness were met by a snarling ogre that sprang from the table, shoving the taller man into the tavern's stone wall on his left.

"You are not my brother! My brother is dead! Because of me!" Athos' hand clenched the front of Porthos' collar, scrunching up the leather and lace, but offering no real threat. The only thing it invoked in Porthos was sorrow and pity.

Porthos gazed sadly at the shorter, disheveled man in front of him. "Your demons are riding you hard tonight."

Athos released his grip on the man's clothes, as he started to slide towards the floor, his knees buckling. Immediately, Porthos slid a supporting arm under Athos' shoulder, keeping him aloft.

"Let's go." Porthos steered the inebriated man towards the door of the grungy tavern. Sluggishly, Athos allowed himself to be dragged along, not that he really had the wits to resist. The man did, however, manage to snag a bottle of wine off a table, as he was hauled past it by Porthos' strong grip.

Once outside, the brisk night air haughtily slapped Athos in the face and he let out a groan of displeasure.

"What? I thought you liked the cold," Porthos jokingly remarked, as he started heading them towards Athos' residence. "I mean you must because you are always sticking your head in a bucket of ice water. Or is that some secret beauty ritual 'cause if it is, it isn't working."

Athos didn't dignify that remark with an answer, but instead attempted to take a swig from his stolen bottle of wine. Some of it made it in his mouth, most ran down his beard onto his doublet, and some splashed over onto Porthos who was not amused.

"You've had enough." Reaching over, he snatched the nearly empty bottle from Athos' hand.

"Hey!" the indigent voice of his drunken companion rang out. "That's mine."

Swallowing the last mouthful of the gruesome vintage, Porthos lowered the bottle, and then slung it into the night. "All gone," he informed the highly agitated Athos. "And if you are gonna get stinking drunk, at least do it on a better quality of wine. That was awful."

Athos decided he was offended and used it as excuse, to take a swing at Porthos, which wildly missed its intended target. Overbalanced, the sodden man tumbled onto the filthy cobblestone street before Porthos could grab him.

"Athos," Porthos pleaded. "Don't." Though he had joked about it, Porthos really didn't want to have to render his fellow musketeer unconscious.

But it was clear Athos had decided he would be going home in a comatose state. Unsteadily, he rose to his feet and took another wild swing at his friend. Once again, Porthos easily avoided his fist and gave him little shove sending the man back, on his knees, in the filthy street.

"I don't like doing this, Athos," Porthos reasoned with his friend. "Please stop."

Only God knew what Athos was really seeing, as he once again lurched to his feet and launched an attack at Porthos. One thing was for sure, it was not his brother-in-arms, who has only trying to help him.

When it was obvious Athos was not going to stop, Porthos sighed, clenched his fist, and delivered a single blow to Athos' temple that knocked the man out cold. He gathered the soul-broken man in his arms then, with great tenderness, slung him over his broad shoulder and transported Athos back to his room.

When he reached Athos' place, he opened the door and carried the man over to the rumpled bed, where he carefully lay him down. After stripping the man of all his weapons and placing them on the nearby table, Porthos struggled to get Athos out of his black leather doublet. It was such a chore that by the time he had succeeded, he was so annoyed that he forgo the thought of removing the unconscious man's boots or pants. Wouldn't be the first or last time Athos slept in such a state.

Knowing there was nothing more that could be done for his friend tonight, Porthos took his leave, securing the door behind him. The thought of staying the night, and keeping guard over his friend crossed his mind, but he really felt Athos was so far gone tonight, he wouldn't wake until way into the next morn.

When he did wake, Athos was going to be in a very, bad way, not something Porthos was anxious to see or experience again. However, he loved his brother and would do his duty by him, in a few hours. Right now, he felt it was safe enough to leave and get a few hours of shut eye.


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

In the early hours of the morning, before the sun had thought about poking its' blazing head over the horizon, Athos regained consciousness and immediately wished he hadn't; his head throbbed unmercifully and the nightmare of Thomas' untimely death still lingered in his mind. Deciding the only cure was the hair of the dog, or in this case, maybe the whole damn mutt, he groped about the floor for a wine bottle that still held some liquid gold.

Unsuccessful at locating his quarry, he was forced to roll out of the bed, onto his knees, on the cold, hard, stone floor, to search some more. Still not finding what he sought, he leveraged his aching body to his feet and scoured the entire room. When he had made a complete circuit of his quarters, he despairingly groaned in utter frustration as he leaned, face first, against the nearby wall, pressing his aching forehead to the tepid stone. There wasn't a single drop of liquor to be found anywhere and he tumultuously slammed his palm against the wall in vexation. His heavy eyelids drifted shut, immediately bringing visions of his dead brother to assault his grief-stricken mind.

Moaning, Athos slowly banged his head once against the wall, before gradually sinking to the stone floor on his knees. Sobs racked his frame, as he was unable to banish the terrible visions from playing in a circular pattern in his tortured mind. He needed more wine, to sink back into oblivion, if he were to escape the merry-go-round of hell he was riding.

Athos' thoughts took a dark detour. If he were facing death, for crimes, real or imagined, or in defense of his country, or to save the life of his friends or family, he would willing embrace the grim reaper. However, he still believed it would be wrong to release himself from this hell, on a personal level. It was one thing to meet ones demise through someone else's hand; it was another to cause it by one's own.

His friends would argue that acting reckless, of which they sometimes accused him, and seeking death thru a third parties' actions, was really no different than falling on his own sword. And maybe they were right. Who was he to judge? But if he couldn't end his miserable existence, then there was only one option left for him to cope on a night like this, copious amounts alcohol.

Of course, his friends would argue, and many times had, that there was another option too; lean on them. Let them help him thru his darkest hours. But experience had convinced him that was not an option. Athos had found whenever he got close to someone, he ended up disappointing and hurting them. The swordsman felt God believed he should be a solitude man, for whoever befriended him, eventually suffered for Athos' follies.

For him, his friendship with Aramis, Porthos, and more recently D'Artagnan was both a blessing and a curse. Being a musketeer gave him a purpose in life, but it was his friends that lifted him out of his melancholy, at times making his life almost normal, even bordering on contentment. But he knew, as it always did, his past would find him and drag those near him into the pits of hell. Milady's return from the dead after five years, and her subsequent actions, had nearly brought about the ruin of the regiment and his dearest friends. Being his friend was a dangerous occupation.

Climbing to his feet, he lurched towards the door, fumbled with the lock then flung it open and stumbled into the pre-dawn. So distraught and determined to find amnesia in the bottom of a bottle, it didn't even register that he'd left his hovel without a single weapon or even his doublet; just his shirt, boots and breeches that Porthos hadn't removed. The slight damp of the air, against his linen shirt, was unpleasant and his neck wrap, which he still had on, did little to abate it. But he ignored all of that as he wove his way through the streets, towards a tavern he knew that never closed.

Corbett was nearing the end of his taxing visit to Paris for his employer, the Marquis Lemione. He hated these trips, hated the city itself. It was crowded and full of people with filth and disease; he preferred the quiet country-side of his lord's estate, where he was happily born and contentedly raised. But he understood his Marquis desires and if it took a few trips to Paris, per year, to meet his duty, he'd do it for the sake of loyalty.

The draft team, two well matched chestnuts, which would pull the dull green wagon of cargo back to his lord's estate, stood in the waxing morning light, breath steaming, with their ears, lazily flopping about, in the pre-dawn hush. Paris was almost quiet at this hour, though nowhere near the tranquility that one found in the remote country-side.

Corbett sighed again, keenly missing his home. He was tempted to forget he was one man short of his quota and head home; not his fault the last one hadn't shown up. However, he knew returning one person short would be dangerous to all, so he'd have to fill the last piece of his lord's order ad-hoc.

Happily, God or fate drew his attention to the street on his left, where a bedraggled man, head bowed, stumbled over an imaginary obstacle and tumbled to the ground. Corbett watched as the man unsteadily climbed back to his feet and set out again. The man was quite alone and seemed totally obilvious of his surroundings, as he blundered through the quiet streets of Paris.

Moving closer, Corbett observed that the man, while dirty and somewhat unkempt, seemed otherwise to be in decent condition, except for being totally inebriated. This could be what he required to meet his needs so he could leave this horrid city. Moving stealthily, he trailed the man for a few hundred feet before making his decision. He drew his weapon, a parrying dagger that had been given to him by his liege lord. While the normal method was to wear such a weapon across ones back for a left-handed draw, Corbett had discovered, with a bit of care and the right type of boot, he could conceal it on his person in a less conspicuous manner. While a musketeer could wear a dagger at his waist and not raise an eyebrow, as a commoner, he was not so privileged. To do so would cause him undo attention, not what he desired. Stealth was his and his master's friend.

Reversing his grip on the weapon, Corbett covertly closed in on his quarry. Corbett was a bit taller than the man and though he walked with a distinct limp, the remnants of an old injury as a child, it didn't hinder him. Athos, who was so wrapped up in a world of his own making, didn't sense the impending danger until it hit him on the back of the head, rendering him unconscious on the ground.

Quickly sheathing his dagger in his boot, Corbett did a cursory examination of the downed man lying on the pavement and decided he was indeed a good choice. Luckily, the green, wooden wagon was not that far off. He dragged the wine-soak man by his arms to the cart with little trouble, other than Athos' scarf, which caught on something at one point. However, with a firm tug, it unwrapped and slid off the unconscious man's neck. When Corbett got to the wagon, he hoisted the dead weight of Athos upwards and dumped him in the rear.

"Shackle him," the bald man instructed one of the men already inside of the cart. The man took an empty set of irons and affixed them on Athos' legs. Corbett reached in and gave the restraints a tug to ensure they were properly secured. Satisfied, he flipped the cover back over the end of the painted cart, hiding his cargo from any prying eyes.

Walking back towards the front of the green wagon, he released the team from the post upon which they were hitched before clambering onto the driver's bench. A light slap of the reins and a cluck got the team underway. As they leisurely moved through the wakening streets of Paris, towards the outskirts of the city limits, Corbett took a last look around him, and once again confirmed that he was glad he lived in the country-side.


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

The three musketeers sat at the long wooden table, in the courtyard of the garrison, partaking of their first meal of the day. It was noisy and bustling this summer morning, with some people eating and others already practicing their weapons skills. However, the trio at the table was ignoring the rabble, only interested in seeking out their missing kinsmen.

"Do you think he will put in an appearance today?" d'Artagnan queried his friends as he reached across the table to grab an apple. Everyone at the table knew exactly to whom 'he' was referring.

Portholes ripped off a chunk of bread from the crusty loaf residing in the wooden bowl and slathered some butter upon its crumbly surface. "Don't know. He was pretty far gone last night when I left him on his bed. More so than usual. Gotta admit, he kind of pissed me off. Let him suffer a bit. Maybe he'll learn."

"Yes. But our Athos has amazing recuperative powers," Aramis pointed out, as he raised his glass to sip from it.

"Oi. Especially coupled with his bucket of water," Porthos snickered, as he munched on his food.

After their meal was complete, they moved into the middle of the yard and ran through some sword drills with d'Artagnan. It wasn't a particularly productive session, as they all kept a weather eye on the gate, expecting that at any moment Athos would come strolling through it. As it grew later with no sign of their friend, their worrying distracted their concentration and after Aramis nearly gave d'Artagnan an accidental crew cut, by mutual consent, they called it quits.

"Perhaps we should take a stroll to Athos' room to see if he is in need of any assistance," Aramis suggested to his companions, as they sheathed their rapiers.

Before a decision was rendered by the group, Captain Treville stepped out onto the second story, covered balcony, which was adjacent to the hallway that led to his office. Calling together his Musketeers, he stood on the porch and handed out the assignments of the day. When he called out Athos' name, an uneasy silence fell over the group of Musketeers, which caused the Captain to raise his head to scan the men below him in the courtyard.

Knowing the Captain was about to discover what everyone else in the regiment already knew, Porthos spoke up. "Hey Cap. Athos wasn't feeling well last night. Ill. Stomach. Nasty," he concluded with a look of disgust, as he wrinkled his nose.

"I see." The Captain tilted his head slightly to the left, as he studied the trio that made up the man in question's staunch allies. "So you're saying I should mark him down as sick, not absence without leave?"

Aramis raised his sincere brown eyes to meet the slightly amused blue eyes of their leader. "That would be most kind of you, Captain. In fact, if our assignment allows for a bit of flexibility, perhaps we should swing by Athos' place and ensure he hasn't, oh, I don't know, barfed up lung in his destitute state."

Aramis and Porthos gazed at their Captain with utter sincerity; angelic even, in poise and posture. d'Artagnan, young and prone to wearing his emotions on his sleeve, squirmed uncomfortably and if Treville hadn't already knew his senior two musketeers were lying, the junior member of the trio would have certainly given them all away.

"I think," Treville began as his eyes swept across the earnest trio, "you have enough time to make a quick swing by Athos' rooms to check on his welfare."

"Thank you, Sir. It will be most comforting to be able to go about our duties, after checking on Athos and knowing that he is well," Aramis thanked the Captain using his most charming courtesan tone.

Treville gave a little eye roll at the antics of his men; they did like to overplay their hands at times. "And tell Athos I want to see him in my office, as soon as his illness...has passed." That put everyone on notice that the Captain was well aware of their little facade, was going along with it for the moment, but Athos was going to have to answer for his actions at a later date. With that he dismissed the group and headed inside.

As the three men were walking towards Athos' place, d'Artagnan remarked, "He knows, doesn't he? About Athos. That he is not really sick."

"Of course he knows. And your inability to remain steadfast in the face of a lie, certainly didn't help the matter," Aramis gently scolded the newest musketeer.

Porthos reached over and slapped the younger man on his paladin. "You'd better learn to lie better, farm boy, or you're gonna get us all killed."

They arrived at the right place and after a preliminary knock, cautiously opened the door to peer around the corner to make sure a loaded pistol was not pointed at their heads. The area wasn't that large and it was easy to ascertain that it was empty. Stepping over the threshold, Porthos moved to the table in the room where he had placed Athos' weapons last night after removing them from the drunken man. Athos' rapier, main gauche, and pistols were still exactly where Porthos had laid them. Next to the weapons, on the chair, was the black leather doublet Athos favored.

D'Artagnan looking about the room stated the obvious. "He's not here unless he has stepped out to the privy."

Walking over to the window in the room, Aramis cracked open the wooden shutters and saw the bucket on the ledge. "It would appear our friend forego his usual beauty ritual this morning."

Porthos walked over and stared at the bucket for a second. "That's hard to believe. When I brought him home from the tavern, he was as drunk as I have ever seen him. Flat out wasted."

"I don't like this." Aramis rubbed a hand over his bearded chin, eyes dark with worry. "It would be very uncharacteristic of Athos to go anywhere without his weapons. As I recall, he wears his dagger in bed."

D'Artagnan fingered the well-worn, black, leather coat. "And I have never seen Athos without his doublet." He thought a moment. "Well except the time he was kidnapped and taken to Pinon."

An ominous silence settled over the room as each man thought about the possible implications. "I don't think he is taking a piss," Porthos finally announced.

"I am inclined to agree with you." Aramis agreed, as his eyes once more roamed the room as if he would find some new evidence to explain Athos' absence.

d'Artagnan's eyes also darted about the room one last time before coming to rest on his fellow musketeers. "So what do we do now?"

Aramis shook his head slowly, not having a clue. "A good question. A good question indeed."


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

In the five years since his brother's death and his downward spiral into a self-imposed drunken exile, Athos had woken up in many places. On good mornings, it was his own bed, though he often had no clue how he had ended up in it. On bad mornings, it was a filthy gutter or an alley somewhere. Occasionally, it was face first on tabletop in a tavern, where the owner judged it easier to clean up and shut down around him, then move him. Other novel locations included the woods, a grassy field, and barns. Never, thank God, in the bed of a strange or familiar woman or a man. Once he awoke upon a rooftop, though he suspected that his fellow musketeers had a hand in that one. The one thing all his waking places had in common was they were stationary for which he was eternally grateful, as his stomach and head, after one of his binges, didn't care to be jostled. This time, however, the mold had definitely been broken.

Regaining consciousness, he detected an unsettling, jolting, rocking motion and neither his mind nor body was happy with this new development. Slowly cracking open his red, bloodshot eyes, he peered out from under his heavy, dark lashes and saw what appeared to be the worn out soles of a pair of boots. Gingerly rotating his eyes,without moving his head, he ascertained that the footwear was covering feet that were attached to a body which, in of itself, was not a particularly useful revelation.

At this point, without further movement, he was unable to determine much more about his current surroundings to include if the body he was staring at was dead or alive. His mind took a quick detour down a peculiar path; had he been mistaken for dead and picked up by the Coroner's wagon? That would explain the movement he was feeling, if he were laying in the back of the delivery wagon of the dead.

With a little groan, knowing it was inevitable what he had to do next, he forced his eyes all the way open and used his arms to prop up his upper body against what he discovered was the side of a canvas-covered, wooden wagon. A particularly bad jounce had his head bouncing off the side of the conveyance causing an ungentlemanly curse to escape his lips.

As his eyes slowly roamed about his immediate surroundings, he forced his muddled brain to start analyzing the scenario. As he had already deduced, he was in a high-sided, supply-type wagon that sported an unpleasant smelling, dirty canvas cover. One had to wonder if it were the cover or the occupants of the wagon, giving off the pungent aroma as it was hot beneath the dome; the cool of the night air had long since departed.

He studied his fellow travelers next, in hopes that it would provide a hint as to what was occurring. Including him, the wagon held a total of eight men and women.

There were two young girls, late teens he would estimate though when it came to anything about the fair sex, Athos would be the first to admit he was usually wrong. They were sitting, side-by-side, in the front portion of the cargo area and either knew each other previously, or had already bonded by circumstance. Neither of the girls was especially attractive, but again, Athos knew he was the last person in the world who should be making any judgement calls.

Sitting across from the two girls were a middle-aged man and woman. It was clear that they were a married couple by the way they sat, clinging to each other for support when the wagon rocked. Their appearance spoke to the working class and their eyes displayed acceptance, but not fear, of the situation in which they found themselves.

The last three occupants of the wagon were all men and if one had to find a similarity amongst them, it would be that they all looked like people you wanted on your side in a brawl. As a solider, Athos did feel his ability to judge the fighting capability of a man was something he was qualified to weigh in on. Another interesting fact about these men was, unlike him, they were not shackled and didn't look like they had seen the wrong end of a main gauche to get here. He was the only one in the wagon of misfits wearing leg irons with a goose egg on his head.

Another unexpected bump jostled him into the man to his right and Athos' head and body, as well as that of his neighbor, were not happy. The man gave him a shove back with his shoulder. "Watch it you drunken sod."

Born and bred a gentleman, the first son of a Comte, Athos' manners and speech patterns were engrained in his being even when incredibly hung-over. Without thought, he replied, "My pardon, Monsieur."

The words had barely passed his lips when he realized his tactical error, as every eye in the wagon instantaneously focused on him with great interest. If he had learned anything in the last five years, it was that the manners of a nobleman could easily get you killed in the wrong situation. While a small part of him would always remain chivalrous, no matter what the circumstances, his self-preservation mode, when not drowned by alcohol, was strong and it kicked in now. He'd better tone it down a notch if he didn't want to find himself in more hot water.

"Ooooo. We have a gentleman in our midst. Did you take a wrong turn last night and mistake this wagon for your carriage, my lord?" the man to his right sarcastically suggested. The rest of the wagon's occupants joined him in his snicker.

Deciding if he ignored the jibe and tried to steer the conversation in a new direction, maybe he could get back on an even footing. Watching his speech patterns with a bit more care, Athos asked, "The only thing I own, that moves, is my feet. Where are we headed?"

The male portion of the married couple felt obliged to answer the question. "To the Marquis Lemione's estate. We have positions with the Lord."

Athos fought to keep his face, a mask of neutrality, securely intact. Nobility tended to know of each other, if at nothing else, by name and reputation. The Comte de la Fere had heard of the Marquis Lemione, but knew nothing other than he was a bit of a recluse. He believed he may have even met the man, once, when he was a small child.

"As do we. Have positions," one of the young girls added though it was obvious to Athos by the way her tongue tripped over the word 'positions', she should have stuck to the word 'job'. The girl was no doubt the daughter of an illiterate, working class family.

Shifting his gaze to the remaining three men, he awaited their tale and they didn't disappoint. He was amazed how people would babble on about themselves, if given a little patience.

"Yeah," piped up the man siting directly opposite of Athos. "We be offered work too. As part of his Lordship's guards."

"I see. It would appear then that I am the only one that was shanghaied and has no clue what is going on here." Athos winced slightly. He could tell his speech patterns had once again crept into his courtly default mode. His wine-soaked brain was simply unable to keep straight everything it needed to do to try to blend into this scenario.

Deciding he wasn't going to be able to keep up the charade of being as base-born as the rest of his wagon-mates, he decided carry on in the manner he had for the last five years. He was not going to disclose his full heritage, but he wasn't going to try to hide the fact he had, in some manner, been associated with the nobility. Hopefully, he could steer them down the path that he had served in a gentleman's household, not owned it. Also, the fact he was one of the King's Musketeers, seemed to him another unnecessary detail that didn't need sharing at this point in time.

They all lapsed into a mutual understanding that silence was going to rule for a while, which suited Athos and his aching head fine. There was nothing more to be learned at this point and if he didn't want to embarrass himself in front of his travel-mates, he needed to shut his eyes and concentrate on keeping his stomach on the inside of his body.

"Don't suppose anyone has any wine?" he drily asked as he started to let his eyes droop. A drink would go a long way to calming his throbbing brain and maybe settling his tumultuous stomach. He ignored the nagging voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Aramis, telling him concussed men, of whom he no doubt fulfilled the category after the blow to his head, should abstain from further imbibing.

"So sorry. Just finished the last bottle. Though I'd be willing to bet I have some in me, somewhere." The man who spoke made a rather crude gesture involving his hand and his lower body.

Athos fully closed his eyes as he dropped his head onto this chest. This was shaping up into being a fun time.


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

Judging by the heat and the sun's play on the canvas, Athos estimated it to be slightly past two, when the wagon came to a creaking halt. Footsteps could be heard moving towards the rear of the wagon and shortly thereafter, the ties were released, the flap of material drawn to the side, and daylight flooded the wagon-bed.

"Out." The one word command was issued by a surprisingly effeminate voice.

Based on the seating chart, Athos was the second to stumble from the wagon and with his feet still shackled, he nearly ended up face-first, kissing the dirt. His saving grace was the powerful, rough hand that grabbed the back of his tunic and hauled him upright. Looking up from under his disheveled brown hair, Athos got the first glimpse at what he had to deem as his captor.

At least as tall as Porthos, the bald man that stood before Athos was muscular, fit, and clean shaven, with icy blue eyes that bore into Athos' squinting green ones.

It was said of Athos that he possessed a wry sense of humor, which became evident with the first rather inappropriate words out of his mouth, as he gazed upon the man in front of him. "I don't believe we have had the pleasure of being introduced."

If Athos was to be honest about what transpired next, the word had to be 'deserved'. The fist that sprang forth, connecting with the side of his bearded cheek and sending him tumbling to the ground, was well-deserved. If the truth were to be told, it was a rather was snarky remark for such an occasion. Lackadaisically, sorting out his tangled chains and his mind, Athos slowly rose to his feet, while unconsciously massaging the side of his chin with his grubby hand.

The rest of the people, filtered out of the wagon with more decorum and grace than the nobleman. The three men, after they climbed out, stood to one side, waiting. The married couple and the two young, women gave a respectful acknowledgment to, what in their case, was their employer, or at least his envoy.

The voice that didn't match the bald man from which it came, harshly instructed them to do what they had to, while the horses took a breather. It was quickly apparent to Athos that whatever had to be 'done', in his case, was going to have to be accomplished wearing his iron fashion statement. With a sigh, Athos sought out a tree and though he'd been successfully performing this action for the last thirty years, rarely had he had to accomplish shackled. It turned out to be a bit of a challenge.

He ruled out any escape attempts at this junction in time; he knew he wouldn't get far with these chains and he had noted his jailer was in possession of at least one firearm. Athos had no desire to find out if the man was a good shot. Prudence, the thought process and not the whore in the market place, argued patience and he decided to follow that course of action. A good solider always had multiple COAs and knew how to choose between them. Athos, even when hungover, remained an astute solider.

A lukewarm, bucket of water was hitched to the side of the green, canvas top wagon. Their tour guide, with a gesture and a grunt, offered it to them after he used it to water the horses. As they lined up to partake of the libations, Athos, being last in line, was having an internal debate.

Craning his head around the man in front of him, he gave the horses a quick once over. Since they had been offered the water bucket first, and had drunk their fill, Athos had some interest in their overall health, especially since he'd be drinking after them. To his trained eye, they looked fit enough and free from disease, which, thankfully could also be said about his fellow travelers. So when it was his turn at the bucket, he swallowed his qualms and drank deeply. He also splashed some water on his face and the back of his neck, but stopped short of his famous head dunking trick. There was a coil of rope in the wagon and a perfect tree limb nearby, both which screamed hang me. A horse sticking its face in the bucket was allowable, but he had serious doubts that his head would be equally tolerate by his fellow travelers.

They got back in the wagon in the reverse order of exiting. Apparently, there was assigned seating in this conveyance, which was fine with him as he thought it might be a bit cooler near the rear of the wagon. Or at least that is what he told his sweating body as the day wore on and the temperature inside the wagon became sweltering.

As there was nothing productive to be achieved at the moment, Athos let his head loll against the side of the wagon as he closed his eyes. A brief nap would do him a world of good. As a season soldier, he knew how to doze almost everywhere, to include in the saddle, and he employed that technique now, confident that the moment the wagon stopped, so would his nap.

The rest of the day was blissfully uneventful, as much as it could be for a prisoner, shackled in an oven-like wagon. They stopped a few more times to rest the team, though it was clearly all about the animal's comfort and not about the human cargo. At nightfall, Corbett pulled off the road, into a small niche within the pine-tree-filled forest. The chestnut team was unhitched, watered, lightly groomed and staked where they had access to grass. The humans were offered the water bucket again, but nothing else; apparently, this was BYO (bring your own), and everyone, other than Athos, got the memo. However, he didn't mind in the least, as his stomach was still not in a happy place. The married couple, who had treated him with a level of kindness during the journey, offered him some of their meager repast, which, after thanking them, he graciously declined.

The women were allowed to sleep in the back of the covered wagon at night, which turned out to be fortuitous when it began to pour later in the evening. When the monsoon started, the men took up residence under the cart in an attempt to keep dry. Their guide slept on the wooden bench in the front of the wagon, which given his stature, was no small feat and when the rains came, offered no coverage. However, the giant didn't seem to be the least bit phased by his impromptu bath.

Athos was secured to a stout tree trunk with a sturdy length of iron chain. When the rains came, the tree didn't offer adequate cover and the musketeer was soon soaked to the skin and generally miserable. The wetness, followed by the insistent dripping of the leaves even after the shower ceased, kept him awake all night. The bright side of the coin, if there was one, was he didn't dream of Thomas that night.

The next two days followed similar patterns, though on the second day, a few loaves of stale bread were handed out for which Athos was now grateful, as his stomach had settled and was beginning to wonder if his throat had been cut.

He'd been shunning his three friends for the last few days, as the anniversary of Thomas' death approached, and his mood spiraled into the black pits of despair. That had meant he had avoided meals at the garrison, and generally everywhere else, which he was now regretting. He took his portion of a loaf and eagerly choked it down.

As darkness began to gather near the end of the fourth day of travel, the wagon turned onto what appeared to be a little used pathway. They travelled down it for more than an hour before coming upon a small village and a few miles more, a spacious manor. It was at the stables, of the stone mansion that their journey ended. They were shuffled out of the wagon and left to stand in the gathering darkness to take in their surroundings. A stable-hand took the team and wagon away, while the human cargo, stood waiting outside the stable-yard.

Eventually, a neatly dressed man, carrying a small ledger, appeared and stopping in front of each person, asked for their name then assigned them a number. When he got to Athos, the last of the lot, he looked at him expectantly. "You must be Garrett."

Athos glanced at him, but remained mute.

"Come, come. I don't have all day. Your name," the bookkeeper impatiently demanded of the recalcitrant man.

"Garrett never showed," Corbett supplied to the man with the clipboard. ""He not a volunteer. He's off the streets."

Raising his head to peer closer at the man in front of him, his eyes swept Athos from head to toe before he gave a little grunt of displeasure. "I see. Name," he demanded again.

Athos decided until he understood what was going on, that use of a pseudonym was the safest bet. "Armand," he muttered.

After making a notation in the ledger, the writer informed Athos his number was 24, and then closed his book shut with a decisive snap. Motioning to the married couple, he led them away towards what Athos assumed was the servants quarters, a small building to the right of the main house by a corridor . Shortly thereafter, a neatly dressed woman showed up to lead the young girls away. Corbett had walked away with the bookkeeper, which left the four fighting men standing alone outside the stables.

"Maybe," Athos said dryly, "they have forgotten about us. Perhaps we should consider leaving." The glances he got from the three men provided their unspoken answer. "Or not," he drolly added.

A new figure came strolling into view from a large structure, to the far right of the manor. A no-nonsense sword hung at his side and a dagger was harnessed to his wide leather belt. The weapons appeared in impeccable condition and Athos was willing to bet their owner knew exactly how to wield them. The man came to a stop in front of them, scowling, as he examined them with a practiced eye. Athos had no doubts this man was once a solider of some sorts, and given the number of public scars he was sporting, probably not inexperienced.

"You're the new recruits," he growled as he made a wide circle around them, examining them as if they were horseflesh, on the block, at an auction.

Recruits did not quite seem like the appropriate word to Athos, but he was pretty sure that recommending a synonym would not be taken well by this man. Keeping his lips firmly sealed, he only stared with mild curiosity at the man, when it was his turn to be scrutinized.

The man halted in front of Athos for a longer moment than the other three, as if to fathom what was different about him. It didn't take him long to note that Athos was the only one sporting leg irons. "Conscripted, I see," he mirthlessly chuckled.

Like in all engagements with the enemy, Athos had started to size up his opponent and develop a mental profile. The fact that the man used such a distinctive word, in the right context, had Athos checking the education box on his mental list. A fighter and a scholar; interesting combo so far.

When it dawned on Athos that he was being singled out and that it might not be a good thing, he subserviently dropped his eyes to the grass covered ground. That seemed to ease his captor's suspicions a bit and the man moved on to the next man in line. There would be time enough later to challenge this man, if that is what it came down to; no sense displaying his hand too early.

"Follow me," the man grunted when he finished his inspection. He turned on his heels and marched off fully expecting they would all follow, which they did.

The group walked past the stables, manor and servant quarters and kept on going towards a complex set well, away from all the other buildings on the property. As they drew up to the walled structure, Athos decided the architectural style was a mixture between a stable and a jail. It was surrounded by a high, menacing wall and from their current position, the only way in or out seemed to be a single, barred gate.

"What manner of beast is stabled here?" Athos pondered out loud.

Their tour guide gave a short, bark of laughter. "The human kind."

As they drew near, the massive iron gate creaked opened to admit them. Once inside, it was slammed, in a rather ominous manner, behind them. "Welcome to your new home, men."

Their eyes drank in the scene around them, trying to piece together what they were seeing. The mid-sized courtyard they were standing in could almost be described as pleasant, with a stone well gracing its middle, if it weren't for the fact of the incredibly high walls that enclosed it. Off the courtyard were three, wedge-shaped areas.

The left-most one appeared to be a small arena, though for what purpose was not immediately discernible. There were sections of seating, under faded canopies, which appeared to be able to accommodate around a fifty people. The seats wrapped around the open area and one could surmise provided an excellent view of whatever occurred in the empty, dirt covered middle. This area was accessed by a wide, iron-barred gate that was presently standing open.

On the right side of this wedge was another gate that seemed to lead into the middle wedge of this crescent that surrounded the courtyard. This middle partition could be entered by either this doorway, or by walking straight thru the courtyard, past the centrally located well. The distance to the second wedge was too far off, and the gated entrance too narrow to see what it contained.

The third and right-most wedge had no entrance that could be discerned from the courtyard in which they stood. The high stone wall that closed off the area was only relieved by a few cut outs, at least fifteen feet off the ground that too were enclosed in iron bars. The whole place was a literal fortress, Athos thought as a small chill ran up his spine. It did not look like a fun place to visit, let alone stay.

The man that had led them here, shoved the prisoner closest to him. "Stop lolly-gagging. Follow me."

The four men were marched thru the courtyard, past the well, to the barred gate. After the door was opened, they all trudged inside and the gate was firmly closed behind them. As they entered into the second wedge, they peered about, though the gathering glum of the night made it very hard to see what this area really contained. There was one item within this wedge, off to the right side that was visible. It, in military parlance, appeared to be a headquarters building. It was from there, that a newcomer emerged to join the troops.

"Hey Jehan," a man called out as he sauntered over to the group. "These the new recruits?"

Athos, once again, disagreed with then choice of words, but Jehan appeared to have no issue with it. "Yes, Captain. Fresh from the great city of Paris."

"Well, at least," the Captain remarked as he walked over and inspected the group, "they are not a bunch of farm boys, more suited to pull a plow than anything else. That last batch," he gave a little distasteful shudder, "they cost our Lord a small fortune."

Jehan nodded in concurrence with his boss. "Ay. That's the truth. Corbett had to bring four new servants to replace the lost staff."

Again, the feeling of being a horse on the trading block stole over Athos as the Captain slowly circled, and examined, each one of them. "These seem to be a strong, healthy lot, though only time will tell of their skills."

The Captain stopped in front of Athos who straightway averted his green eyes so as not to seem challenging. There was no sense in antagonizing this man, yet. He had no clue what was going on here, or who the enemy was, so patience was the key to survival.

With a dismissive nod, the Captain began to walk away. "Get them settled. The meal has already been served so they'll have to wait for the morn. I'd like a skills assessment, Jehan, as soon as possible."

With that, the Captain disappeared back up the stairs and into the building. The group started out again, moving across the cavernous area to a dual-gated tunnel. The first gate was already opened, and they were ushered into the tunnel. When the last man was inside, the first door was locked behind them, and then the exit door, at the far end of the tunnel was unlocked. Fairly tight security, Athos noted. What came thru this tunnel didn't easily escape.

Athos, bringing up the rear shuffling along in his shackles, wondered what the fickle fates had dragged him into now. Every year on the anniversary of Thomas' death, Athos spiraled down into the pits of hell, which usually consisted of a few days of binge drinking which, to date, hadn't killed him or drowned his sorrow. This year, he had a nasty feeling, was shaping up to be a whole lot worse.


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

It had been four extremely long days for the three musketeers. Porthos slammed a frustrated hand on Captain's Treville's desk, causing his papers to jump, but the Captain didn't take offense knowing it was worry and discouragement driving the man's actions.

"All the way there and nothing! Nothing!" Porthos slammed his hand again into the desk. Aramis took a step forward, laid a gentle hand on Porthos' leather covered bicep, and shook his head ever so slightly. With a growl, not aimed at anyone, but at the situation, Porthos stalked off to the window, his eyes black with frustration.

The Captain tracked the upset fighter with sympathetic eyes, knowing how close his men were; they were called the Inseparables for a valid reason. Shifting his gaze, he addressed his comments to Aramis. "So there was no sign of him?"

Aramis removed his charming grey hat and ran a tired hand through his brown, messy locks. "A long ride for nothing. No one at his estate, well former estate, has seen him."

d'Artagnan, who had been standing slightly off to one side stepped forward. "I checked every drinking establishment in Paris and no one has seen him in the last four days."

Treville torpidly sank into the oak chair behind his desk as he too rubbed a weary hand over his face. "I checked the prison, talked to Red Guards and even the coroner. Even if he were laying in a gutter somewhere, he'd been found by now."

Porthos, who best expressed his emotions thru physical action, slapped his hand against the wall this time. "He didn't just disappear into thin air now did he?"

"What are we missing?" d'Artagnan said as he slowly struggled to think it thru.

"Perhaps someone?" Aramis thoughtfully suggested, his gaze sweeping this three companions in a meaningful manner.

d'Artagnan's head jerked upward. "You don't think Milady..."

The Captain slowly shook his head. "Believe it or not, I sought her out to ask her. She said no."

Unable to keep the bitterness from his tone, d'Artagnan sputtered, "And you believe her?"

Gazing off into the distance, the Captain considered the question, the same one he had asked of himself a hundred times since he had sought her out. "I do," he finally answered. "She appeared truly startled to hear of Athos' disappearance, though not necessarily dismayed."

"No real surprise there," Aramis surmised and the Captain nodded his head in concurrence.

"So where do we go from here?" d'Artagnan demanded of his fellow Musketeers bringing them back on point.

The room grew silent as Captain Treville pinched the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb, Porthos sought another inanimate object to abuse, Aramis fiddled with the brim of his hat and D'Artagnan appeared poised to take action, but didn't know in what form.

"The only thing we can do is to retrace Athos' path again, and see what we have overlooked. Porthos, you brought him back to his room?" Aramis looked over at his friend for confirmation.

"Aye. Removed his weapons, took off his doublet, and dumped him on his bed."

All the eyes in the room turned on him for a moment. "Gently. I placed him gently on his bed." His eyes grew sad with remembrance of how despondent Athos had been that night. "Well, maybe I could have been a touch gentler."

"Was he awake, when you put him to bed?" Aramis softly questioned.

A guilty look crept across the curly-haired man's face as he dropped his gaze to the floor. "Er, unconscious might be a slightly more accurate term."

Aramis decided not to explore the manner in which Athos had become unconscious, sensing Porthos physicalized the event. Instead, he forged on. "So we can deduce at some point, later in the night, Athos... Ah... woke." Three heads nodded in agreement. "When he awoke, his head had to be pounding. As his bucket of water remained undisturbed on the window sill, we have to assume he used another remedy."

"Hair of the dog," Porthos softly growled.

"It is conceivable if he was hung over, distraught, and there was no wine in his room, he could have wandered into the streets, in search of alcohol." Aramis let his eyes sweep the room to see if the occupants were coming along for this ride.

"It is not," Captain Treville, agreed, "implausible. He has been acting peculiar the last few days, more withdrawn, even for him."

D'Artagnan headed for the door only to be halted by Porthos' questioning where he was going.

"Back to Athos' rooms. To see if we can prove our theory and maybe track where he went." With that, he was out the door. Porthos shrugged and followed after him.

Captain Treville rose from his desk and walked over to Aramis. "This is a long shot, you know. It has been days since he disappeared."

"I know Captain. But we must be hopeful until..." Aramis' voice trailed off not wanting to finish the morbid thought.

Treville compassionately patted him on the shoulder as a solemn Aramis left his office to join his brethren in the hunt for their missing brother.


	8. Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

The men were led thru what appear to be a common room containing tables, benches and stools, to a narrow corridor that was lined, on either side, with what could only be described as cells. Each time they came upon an empty one, the limping man would halt and motion one of them inside, before closing the door. As they made their way down the line, Athos kept a discrete count of how many people there were until it was his turn to enter a vacant chamber

His green eyes quickly swept the contents of the space, which only held a pallet, blanket, and bucket. To his right, another man stood, staring at him thru the bars of his cage; to the left was empty. Before the door was shut, his chains were removed and he was glad to be free of the chafing shackles.

His cell door was shut, though not, he noted, secured. Of course, given all the other locked gates between his cell and freedom, he supposed there was no real need to bolt it. The furthest he could escape was back into the common area.

Athos partially turned to watch, as Jehan walked back up the aisle before disappearing from sight. Rotating to face the man to his right, Athos inquired, "Where are we?"

"Hell," the man brusquely answered. After giving Athos the once over, and apparently finding him wanting, the man pivoted away, lay down on his pallet and went to sleep.

Athos stood, a solitary figure, in the gathering darkness, wondering where he was, why he was imprisoned, and what would happen next. The occupants of the other cells made their way to their pallets and one by one, sank into sleep. Eventually, the four new men followed suit, though Athos didn't lie down; the solider in him didn't want to be in such a vulnerable position in unknown territory. Instead, he propped his back against the wall and continued to muse upon his condition.

At some point during the night, he must have dozed off, because the rattling of the gates swinging open, on each cell, startled Athos awake. A different man, than the one from the night before, walked down the aisle and rattled doors instructing people to wake up. Athos rose and stretched his cramped muscles while observing what his fellow inmates were doing. They all were filing into the aisle heading for the common room he had passed thru last night on the way to his cell. He joined their ranks and headed down the corridor.

Dim daylight shone thru the iron barred windows, high up on the stone walls of the common room. On the roughhewn, wooden tables there were baguettes, cheese, apples, and a pot that contained porridge. The men were helping themselves before settling about the room on the stools and benches. To Athos' eyes, it wasn't all the different from the routine at the Garrison in the morning. His stomach gave a rumble, to remind him it was hungry. Grabbing an apple and a hunk of a baguette, he moved to a table in the far corner of the room, where he could watch the events unfolding.

A young boy gave him a shy smile and placed a mug on the table in front of him. After a quick whiff and a cautious sip, he determined it was cider. While wine was his preferred beverage of choice, he didn't think that would be an option today.

As he munched on his bread, he determined there was a rank and order to the men in the room. He wasn't able to understand how the positions were determined yet, but that would come with time. In the meantime, he discreetly studied the various groups.

At the table nearest the entranceway, sat what he perceived as the highest ranking group of men, obvious by their swank, swagger, and the deference unconsciously paid to them by the rest of the men in the room. Towards the middle of the common area was the table of the mid-level flunkies. While they deferred to the top table, they made it very clear that they were to be differentiated from the last table of men.

Furthest from the front and last to get served, it was apparent he was at the lowest ranking table. It held three men who were already prisoners, and the four newcomers. All in told there were four at the top table, four at the mid-point and eight at the lowest table for a total of sixteen.

Athos' fellow travelers from the last four days in the wagon did not seem curious about their surroundings and circumstances as he did, which lead the musketeer to believe they hadn't been lying about being invited, not coerced at the end of a sword point, to come to this establishment.

The iron-barred gate at the near end of the tunnel clanged open and Jehan limped into the room. "Up and out you laggards," he gruffly demanded.

The existing men promptly rose; only the newcomers hesitated. This was quickly remedied as Jehan moved across the room with surprising speed to bark at them. Sweeping them all with his glare, he lingered on Athos, who still was fully seated. "On your feet!" he menacingly bellowed.

The musketeer was tempted to stare the man down but knew he needed to stay under the radar until he understood what was going on here, so obediently he rose to his feet, dropping his eyes in a submissive gesture.

"Shape up, or next time there will be consequences." Jehan stumped away, heading down the tunnel with the gates on either end.

Falling in line behind one of the other men Athos asked, "Where are we going?"

Jehan, who apparently had excellent hearing answered, "No talking. Move it." There was a sense of irony, which no one was there to enjoy, of having the taciturn Athos being told to shut up.

Following the pattern of last might, the men filed through the first gate and when everyone was in the tunnel area, the gate was secured. Only then did the second gate open, allowing them to pass into the next open area.

A blue sky above their heads, greeted them, as they stepped into expansive, dirt covered yard. While they had passed through it last night, Athos hadn't appreciated its size or scope, or its purpose in the darkness. It was now abundantly clear it was a training area and modeled to some degree after the musketeer's garrison. There was a two story building on one side, with a second level porch that overlooked the grounds. This was the building the Captain had gone into last night, Athos surmised. Scattered about the enclosure were various training stations, with straw bags, and other items, upon which one could improve one's fighting skills.

Two more men joined Jehan and helped split up the men into smaller groups. It was no surprise to find the separation was along the same lines as the table-seating ranks. The top men were taken off to one side and given practice weapons before they proceeded to work thru some fairly complex sword drills. The middle group was split off with a different trainer, lead to another side of the yard, provided swords and started on less complicated patterns. Jehan stayed with the last group, which consisted of the four newbies and the previous men. Jehan lead this bunch over to a third area where they too were given rapiers.

Athos schooled his features into what he hoped was a neutral mask as he took the worn, dull blade being handed to him. It was poorly made, what one would expect in a crude training blade, he supposed. Determined not to attract any attention, it took a lot of concentration on his part to ensure he did not display any signs of being familiar, except on the most rudimentary level, with a sword. He wanted to portray a man who had perhaps held a sword a few times, most likely in the service of his liege Lord, but not formally trained and certainly not a person that had ever experienced any sort of combat.

Letting his eyes roam over the other new guys, he judged they were rather inexperienced with a sword, all but one, who took his weapon in hand with a degree of confidence. The final men of the group accepted their weapons and held them in a manner that showed exposure but mediocre ability at best; it was quite obvious why they were with the group of newcomers. Still, their skill level, in theory, was higher than the newbies so Jehan set them to practicing on the hanging straw dummies, before focusing his attention back to the other four.

"My job is to make you into a swordsman," Jehan started out, though his voice clearly held distain for the task.

Though Athos knew it wasn't wise, he blurted out, "Why? And for what purpose?"

Jehan's eyes narrowed as he walked over to the musketeer and got right in his face. Athos didn't drop his eyes this time, but met the challenging stare head on with his cool green eyes. "The only thing you need to know is whatever I say, you do...immediately...without hesitation... or questions."

Taking four steps backwards, Jehan nodded to someone over Athos' right shoulder. The sound of a whip cracking thru the air was the only warning Athos got before his back exploded in pain. Sans his leather, the light linen shirt did nothing to deflect the cruel bite of the snaking whip. After four measured strokes, the whip ceased.

With great effort, Athos forced his body not to retaliate to the attack, but stand there and submissively accept his punishment for being insubordinate. Dropping his eyes to his boot tips, he sensed Jehan approaching him again, but this time Athos kept his eyes glued to his toes, as if his life depended on it, and perhaps, it did.

"Got any more questions?" Jehan sarcastically asked and Athos shook his bowed head negatively. "Good." Jehan walked until he was standing front and center of the group. "My job," he began again, "is to make you into the best swordsman possible, though looking at you sorry lot," he shook his head sadly; "it's gonna be a waste of my time."

As Jehan was speaking, Athos slowly raised his head, peering through his dark, wavy hair in a manner he hoped was non-confrontational. "You will be representatives for our lord in his duals."

Athos was a brave man, experts' swordsman, and usually a strategic player, except for today. For reasons, he wasn't even sure of, his mouth involuntarily opened again. "And who would that be?" The sting of the whip on his back came as no real surprise this time, though it was tad bit harder, drawing blood. Internally cursing himself, Athos quickly lowered his eyes at Jehan's approach.

Jehan stopped in front of the man and crossed his arms over his chest. "Are your brains addled?"

Judging this to be a rhetorical question, Athos wisely kept his head bowed and remained silent.

"Because I'm thinking they are." Turning on his heels, Jehan headed back to his middle command post. "Let's make this perfectly clear. You are lower than maggots. You are the dead body."

Athos felt Jehan's eyes falling on him. "You have asked who, what, where, and why. Would you like to add 'how'?"

Athos murmured, "No, thank you." Apparently, politeness wasn't the right response.

A small, cruel, smile crept across Jehan's face. A quick nod to the whip wielder brought a few more lashes reigning down upon Athos' stinging back. When he stumbled a bit under the onslaught, Jehan signaled for the assault to desist.

Sweat ran down Athos' face, as he bit his lower lip trying to remain in control. Intellectually, he knew any attack would only lead to his immediate death. Now was not the time to fight but it was taking every fiber of his being to remain passive.

Once again, Jehan came to a stop in front of Athos. "On your knees, dog."

Slowly, Athos sunk to his knees, keeping his head bowed the whole time. Jehan moved to his side, bent slightly, and whispered in his ear. "I don't quite understand why you are here or why you were the only one in chains upon your arrival. None-the-less, you are here now, like it or not. I am your better, something you need to get thru your head quickly, if you want to live out the week."

Athos, kneeling on the sun warmed earth, flashed back to Pinon, to the words and deeds done there. A small shudder ran thru his humbled frame. Jehan took the involuntary action as a sign of understanding, straightened and moved away.

Slowly climbing to his feet, Athos fixed his eyes upon the horizon. "I trust we have an understanding?" Flicking his eyes to Jehan before affixing them on the horizon again, Athos gave Jehan a small nod.

"Good," the swordmaster said as he moved back to the middle again, to address the entire group. "You all will get your turn to fight and some of you will die. I suggest you pay close attention to what you are being taught, if you wish to remain among the living. However, if you have deceased relatives, whom you are anxious to be reunited with, by all means follow the path of this man." His eyes flickered to Athos, who flinched as the comment hit a little too close to home.

As Jehan droned on, Athos updated his mental profile of this man. The way he held his sword spoke of experience and confidence with weapons. His words were that of someone who had been exposed to an education; this man was not dumb; what he was... dangerous. If Athos wanted to remain alive to escape this situation, he couldn't underestimate nor needlessly irritate this man.


	9. Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

The three men went to Athos' rooms once more and even though they all knew it was a long shot, they each held a tiny spark of hope when they opened the door, they would find his piercing green eyes, moodily glaring at them for intruding upon his privacy. A collective, disappointed sigh escaped their lips when the room remained as it had been before, empty.

"So you took him home, put him to bed, then left," Aramis confirmed once again with Porthos, not because he had forgotten what had occurred, but because the silence in the room was creepy.

The burly man nodded in concurrence. "He was definitely sacked out when I left him."

Sweeping his eyes around Athos' spartan accommodations, Aramis took off his hat and twirled it in his hands. He noted Athos' weapons belt was still on the table and his doublet on a nearby chair.

d'Artagnan, who'd been wandering around the room righting all the knocked over wine bottles, confirmed their earlier hypothesis. "Every bottle is empty, so it is likely he did go out for more."

Aramis and Porthos exchanged glances. The boy made a valid point. "I suppose," Aramis mused rubbing his chin, "if Athos' wits were still wine-addled enough..."

"He was really far gone," Porthos swiftly interjected. "It would have taken more than a few hours for him to sober up. More like a few days."

"...then I guess it is conceivable he could have left without his weapons," Aramis concluded.

"And his doublet," d'Artagnan pointed out lifting the garment off the chair upon which it resided.

Aramis continued along the logic path they were treading. "So where is the closest place one could get wine in the middle of the night?"

"Ole Deniaud's tavern is known to serve day or night. Not too far from here." Porthos gestured towards a southwesterly portion of the city, near the Court of Miracles.

D'Artagnan cocked his head to the side, as his face wrinkled into a frown. "I don't know that place."

Porthos gave a little chuckle. "Yeah, well it is not a place many people know about, and the people that frequent it, prefer it that way. Folks from the Court of Miracles mostly. I showed it to Athos a while back. I think he only went there when he was trying to avoid the Red Guard. It is not an establishment they ever go to, except for that one time, when they decided to try to shut it down." A small shudder rippled thru his frame. "It wasn't pretty... for the Red Guard that is."

The three musketeers left Athos' room and headed in the direction Porthos indicated, hoping someone at the tavern might have seen Athos. As they walked along the cobblestone streets, a young boy darted past them, nearly running into their legs. When the child almost tumbled to the ground, Porthos reached out a quick hand to steady the lad. "Watch where you're goin', boy," Porthos admonished gruffly, though not unkindly.

A strident voice rang out from behind them. "Hold him, the little thief. He stole from me!"

Porthos, who had been about to release the boy, kept his grip in place as a merchant, huffing and puffing, joined them.

"What seems to be the issue, Monsieur?" Aramis inquired politely of the out-of-breath shopkeeper.

"That brat," he gestured to the scruffy boy who was trying to wiggle out of Porthos' firm grasp, "stole a loaf of bread from me. And it's not the first time either, but it is his last! As the King's Musketeers, I demand you perform your duty and lock him up!"

Aramis peered down at the dirty boy, who had begun to quake in Porthos' grasp, and his eyes narrowed before he suddenly turned to face the merchant. "If I were to pay for what the boy has stolen, would you be willing to forget this incident?"

D'Artagnan and Porthos looked askance at Aramis, but a meaningful glance from their comrade had them remaining mute.

"And what guarantee do I have he won't come back tomorrow and steal from me again? If he is thrown in prison, I don't have to worry about that, do I." The merchant glowered at the street urchin, who had finally given up trying to struggle free and was dejectedly standing by the tall musketeer, eyes downcast.

"Oh I think," Aramis replied moving closer to the boy and casually draping a hand over his bony shoulder, "the lad has learned his lesson, realizes how lucky and merciful you are being, and will never bother you again, isn't that right, son?"

From under his mop of dark, stringy hair, the boy enthusiastically nodded.

"Here you go, good Sir." Reaching into his pouch, Aramis withdrew a few coins and handed them over. "I believe that should cover the bread and your inconvenience."

The merchant greedily took the coins and after giving the boy a final glare, walked back to his stall.

"So, other than feeling charitable, why did we bail out this street rat?" Porthos asked, his voice indicating he was pleased, but confused. The big man suspected the boy stole not to be malicious, but simply because he was starving. As a child of the streets, Porthos understood that driving factor, which made people do things simply to survive another day.

Aramis smiled kindly down the lad again. "Because now he owes us a favor." He gently took the boy by his bicep and led him over to a small, low, stone wall. Picking him up, he plopped the child on top of the structure so they were nearly eye to eye. "My name is Aramis and this is my friend Porthos and d'Artagnan. And who might you be?"

The boy peered at him with suspicion. "Nicolas," he grudgingly offered.

"Nicolas. And did you take the bread, Nicolas?" Aramis lightly questioned.

The boy dropped his filthy head towards his chest and shamefully nodded. "Aye. I was very hungry."

Aramis reached out a hand and placed it on the boy's slim shoulder. "We are Musketeers, in service of the King, and we are sworn to uphold the laws. The King does not approve of stealing," Aramis solemnly stated and the other Musketeers nodded gravely in agreement.

"King definitely don't like thieves," Porthos reinforced in his gravelly voice, with a slight scowl that didn't reach his eyes.

Aramis removed his hand from the boy and ran it over his chin in contemplation. "We should bring you to prison," and before he had even completed his sentence, the small boy began to tremble. "However, I think, if you help us, maybe, just this once, we could make an exception."

"How can I help?" the boy whispered, his eyes pleading with Aramis not to incarcerate him.

Aramis reached out his hand again, this time removing the scarf that was around the boy's waist. As he did, Porthos' eyes widened. "That's Athos'!"

"Can you tell us where you found this scarf, Nicolas? We believe it once belonged to a good friend of ours," Aramis said, as he ran the material through his fingers with reverence.

"I didn't steal it," the boy immediately replied defensively.

"No. Of course not," Aramis calmly agreed. "I'm sure you found it, right?" The child vigorously nodded his head. "And where would that have been?"

"It was in the street, over there," he indicated a spot a few hundred feet from where the three of them stood. The Musketeer's heads rotated as one, as they examined the area to which the boy pointed. Again, it was almost as if each expected Athos magically, to appear, standing there, scowling at them and offering up a dry witticism about their behavior.

"And did you see the man it belonged too by any chance?" Aramis prayed the answer would be yes and his devotion to God was answered.

"Aye. He was being dragged, by a man," the child replied.

Excitement glowed in the eyes of the Musketeers. The first solid clue they had into their friend's disappearance.

Growing bolder by the positive reactions his words were receiving, the boy sat up a bit straighter and his voice gained confidence as he told his tale. "It was really early in the morning. I was taking a piss over there." His small grubby hand pointed towards the mouth of an alley. "Your friend wasn't walking none to steady as he come down the street. This man snuck up behind him,and conked him over the head, and he fell. Then the man dragged him by his arms to a cart and drove away." The boy glanced hopefully and solemnly at the three musketeers. "Honest truth."

Aramis patted the boy reassuringly on the head. "I'm sure it is. Can you tell us anything about the man or the cart?"

The boy ruefully shook his head. "It was dark." He thought for a few seconds then added, "The wagon was covered. And I think it might have been green."

D'Artagnan jumped in. "Did you see what direction it went?"

The boy pointed. "Towards the gates."

Favoring the boy with a big smile, Aramis tried to jog more from the boy's memory. "The man. Was he tall? Or short? Maybe you noticed his clothes or something?" he desperately pried.

The boy's face scrunched up in concentration. "He was taller than your friend." The boy's eyes roamed over the three men in front of him. "About his height," he pointed towards Porthos. "Maybe taller."

D'Artagnan stepped closer to the boy, leaning in towards him. "I'm going to show you a trick my Da showed me on how to remember things. Close your eyes."

Fear crept in the boy's brown eyes at this request, so Aramis quickly reassured him. "It's ok. Remember, we are King's Musketeers, sworn to protect."

"Ay, we are the good guys, not like them nasty Red Guards," Porthos added which earned him an eye roll from Aramis. "What," he complained. "The boy knows the truth, don't you, boy?" he addressed the child who nodded. "We're the good guys and they are the bad guys," Porthos concluded with an evil grin.

D'Artagnan spoke again, trying to get them back on track. "My Da always said we see more than we realize, and we can recall things, by closing our eyes, and pretending we are seeing it again. Can you do that for me, Nicolas?"

Bravely, the small child shook his head, and then trustingly closed his eyes.

"Good," d'Artagnan praised this small vote of confidence by the boy. "Now think back to that night. It was dark, maybe a bit cold?"

"Aye. It was. I really didn't want to go take a piss, but I really had to," the boy factually confirmed and the Musketeers smiled.

"Yes, I think we have all experienced that problem. Now, you look over and see..." the youngest Musketeer tried to draw out the boy's memories.

A small chuckle escaped the boy's lip. "You friend. He tripped and fell. But there was nothing there."

Three sets of eyes, sans the boy's, met and a knowing glance passed between them.

"He got up. He didn't have a coat on. This man, he was tall and bald, comes hobbling out of the darkness, and bonks your friend over the head. He falls again, but this time at least he had a reason."

d'Artagnan's voice grew excited. "Hobbled? Like he had an injury? The man limped?"

"Aye," the child confirmed. "Though it didn't seem to cause him no problems. He dragged your friend by his arms over to the wagon. He picked him up and put him in the back." The boy's face wrinkled in concentration again. "I think there were other people in the wagon too. And I heard a sound."

D'Artagnan questioned, "What kind of sound?"

"A clang. Like you hear around the smithy. Like a chain rattling."

A dark expression crossed Porthos' face. "Shackles," he hissed with much displeasure. Porthos, because of his mother's circumstances, hated shackles.

D'Artagnan asked the boy a few more questions, but got no more useful information so he finally told him to open his eyes. After he opened his eyes, blinking a bit in the bright sunshine, he looked hopefully at the men. "Did I do good? Can I go now?"

Porthos took a step closer to the child and bent his head down a bit. "I grew up on the streets. It's tough." The small child nodded his head in agreement. "Is your Mum or Da alive?"

"Me Mum. We do ok," Nicolas replied both fiercely and proudly.

"Mum's can be very strong," Porthos agreed solemnly. "Me Mum raised me and I became a Musketeer. But you gotta be smart. Stealing. You got to be more careful."

The boy nodded thoughtfully. "He wasn't a good man to steal from."

Aramis and d'Artagnan appeared as if they were going to launch into a lecture on stealing but Porthos cut them off. They didn't know what it was like to live in the streets. "Nicolas. I understand stealing but ya know it ain't right." The boy gave a small nod of his head. "And next time, if you get caught, especially by the Red Guard they might hang ya." Aramis elbowed Porthos none to gently. "What? It's the truth."

The look and the sigh from Aramis said it all, so Porthos hastened onward. Reaching into his pouch, he found a few coins then looked over expectantly at his brothers who also dug in their coin purses. Taking the offerings, Porthos presented them to the boy who eagerly snatched them. "Give that to your Mum. And if you ever get in trouble, come to the Musketeer garrison and ask for Porthos."

"Or Aramis."

"Or d'Artagnan," the other two musketeers chimed in.

"...and we will help ya," Porthos concluded. Reaching out his arms, he carefully plucked the boy off the wall and set him on the ground. After tousling his hair with his black, gloved hand, Porthos sent the boy on his way.

Aramis watched as the lad ran off and disappeared into the crowd, unconsciously continuing to stroke the scarf. "Well, we have a few more clues but no real answers yet."

"We have to canvas the city. Find someone that saw the wagon or the man," d'Artagnan stated as if it were a simple fact and an easy task.

While all three realized it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack, they had no other leads, so they split up and went to work. The only thing they were sure of was Athos was in trouble **.**


	10. Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10

The dull blade of the sword whacked him in the ribcage once again and he grunted as another wave of pain rippled across his torso. Athos was having a terrible time trying to appear as if he were a novice at sword-work, while still evading the unpredictable lunges of his training mates. Because these amateurs had no clue what they were doing, they were prone to making incredibly bizarre maneuvers, which Athos had both a hard time anticipating and avoiding. It was ironic that the best swordsman in Paris was being thwarted by rank beginners.

The worse incident so far was when his 'opponent' swung his sword at Athos and accidentally let go of it, turning it into a javelin rather than a rapier. Athos had tried to swiftly duck, but somehow, the pommel smacked him in the side of the face, splitting open his cheek. Appalled and in denial, Athos stood there, blood dripping down his left cheek, staring at his perplexed opponent. "You let go of the sword!" he accused in utter disbelief.

Of course, Jehan, who was standing nearby, observed the whole event and burst out laughing. A blush stained Athos' cheeks, even though he wasn't the one that had thrown the sword like a javelin. However, the mere thought of this embarrassing incident ever getting back to his Musketeer brethren made him shudder. The great Athos, unable to duck from a sword, thrown like a stick, for a dog. The jokes would be unmerciful and never-ending.

Wiping his sleeve across his cheek to stanch the blood flow, Athos, warily watched as his opponent retrieved his sword from the ground where it had landed and awkwardly gripped it again. They began to spar and the second time the sword became airborne, Athos was ready for it and accurately and viciously batted it out of the way with his own blade. The good news was he didn't get hit this time. The bad news was Jehan saw him perform the maneuver. The trainer's eyes narrowed at the ploy and Athos feared he might have over played his hand a bit. For the next few hours, Athos made sure his moves were clumsy and amateurish, even though it made it much harder to avoid getting hit once again. By the time the group filed back into the common area, his body felt like one massive bruise from head to toe.

Gratefully, he sank on one of the wooden benches and quickly downed the mug placed in front of him by the same shy servant boy from the morning. Athos gave the boy a small smile as the lad saw fit to refill his mug swiftly. Later that evening, after they had their night meal and had retired to their cells for the duration of the night, Athos was surprised to see the boy outside his door with a small container of water.

Holding out a semi-clean piece of cloth, he stuck it thru the bars, along with the water. "I thought you might want to wash off that cut. My Mom says washing is a good way to avoid infection."

Athos rose and walked over to the bars, accepting the items. "I have a friend who feels the same way. Thank you."

Before he could ask the boy anything else, the lad quickly turned and hurried away. Taking the water and rag back to his pallet, he sat down to sponge off his face. The water felt good and he was grateful that the boy had brought it.

It appeared to Athos, over the next few days, that the lad had taken an interest in him, for whatever reason. He would always ensure Athos got some of the best food and other small kindnesses. One day he slipped Athos a small jar of a salve, explaining his Mom used it on cuts. The musketeer gratefully accepted the small gift as he was continually getting hacked up by his training mates each day. He longed to use his skills and simply lay them all out, but he kept his cool and remained under Jehan's radar.

Laying in his cell on the third night after his capture, trying find a comfortable position that didn't cause pain from his cuts, bumps and bruises, Athos came to the conclusion a new strategy needed to be employed. During each day's practice, he had taken to stealthily watching the other groups work out; it didn't take much concentration to spar with his own group, well except for the occasional flying swords.

Unsurprisingly, he had determined he could easily take on anyone in the yard, if he had to, and win. However, that wasn't his short or long term goal. His long term goal was escape, his short term goal to find a way not to be the group's pin cushion. The conclusion he reached, to meet his short term goal, was to 'improve' his sword play enough to get moved up into the middle group. It wasn't that the group would offer him any sort of challenge, but it would allow him to display a little more skill to avoid getting hit every five minutes by his fellow swordsmen. So he decided, before he drifted off to sleep, at tomorrow practice he would endeavor to get advanced a level.

Over the next two days, Athos slowly began trouncing all his opponents. He didn't go overboard in his skill acquisition, but by the end of the second day, it was clear to everyone, to include Jehan, that he was now outclassing his currently assigned challengers.

On the following morning, there was a strange buzz in the common room, which Athos noted as he entered it in the morning. Once again, he felt like a third wheel, as everyone else seemed to know what was going on, except him. His subtle attempts to learn more had resulted in very little useful information. The men mostly kept to their rank and file orders, only interacting with their own peers. Even the newcomers had banded together leaving Athos as the odd man out. While that wasn't an unusual norm for the musketeer, in this case it was thwarting his attempts to figure out what was going on in the place. Even the shy boy, who served him, wouldn't ever speak more than a few words at a time.

Jehan swaggered into the room and announced that a member of the middle tier had been chosen. All the other fighters congratulated Barge, the man chosen, except Athos who didn't have a clue why to congratulate the man. While the rest of them went out to train as usual, Barge, was escorted towards the headquarters building.

Because Barge was from the middle tier, Jehan moved Athos up to that group, at least for the day, fulfilling Athos' short term goal. In this group, Athos was able to avoid getting hit much easier and by nightfall, he was pleased to see he hadn't collected a new cut, ding, or bruise all day.

Slightly past mid-day, while the men were taking a short rest break, Athos noted noise coming from the area, behind the stone wall, to the left of their practice yard. Recalling back to the night he had been dragged in here, Athos remembered it had sort of looked like a viewing arena. It appeared it was being used today, because Athos heard the clanking of swords along with booing and cheering. He would have loved to ask one of his fellow inmates what was going on but the chance of him getting a response was next to nil. He'd have a better chance of finding out what was going on by simply walking up to one of the guards and politely asking them to open the gate.

Just before they were about to stop practice for the night, the gate that closed off the tunnel on the far side of the yard, creaked open. Barge, who had been absent all day, was brought in on a stretcher. Respectful silence descended over the yard as all the fighters stopped and watched as his bloody body was carried across the dirt and into the tunnel that lead back to the common room. As the body passed in front of Athos, he could clearly see the wounds on Barge were caused by a sword.

After he passed into the tunnel, the rest of the men slowly filed in behind, as Barge was taken to his cell and laid on his pallet. They congregated in the common room, watching in silence, as the pallbearers returned with the now empty stretcher, on their way back into the tunnel. The gates were secured as normal and small talk started up as the prisoners made ready for their evening meal.

Servants began to bring food in the common room as if nothing unusual had just occurred and the men moved to their normal tables and their conversations gradually filled the room. Athos was secretly dismayed to hear his fellow inmates were laying bets as to when Barge would succumb to his wounds. Reaching out, Athos grabbed onto the arm of the servant-boy who had been showing him kindness. It startled the boy and when he tried to break loose, Athos tightened his grip.

"Please," Athos pleaded with sincerity. "What happened to Barge?" He flicked his eyes to the moaning man in the cell than back on the boy's face.

"He lost!" The tone of voice clearly indicated the boy thought Athos' question was a bit daft.

Athos, stilled puzzled, frowned. "Lost what?"

"The duel." Trying to put the pieces together, Athos' unconsciously loosened his hold on the boy, who took advantage of the distraction to pull free and scamper away.

Athos, sighing, took a sip from his mug as he sat alone on his bench. He couldn't quite put his finger on what was occurring here, but one thing he was sure of, it wasn't good.


	11. Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

Treville leaned on the railing of the second story overhang, observing the two gloomy Musketeers sitting at the wooden table below in the courtyard. Though there was food in the bowls in front of them, neither man was eating anything, merely pushing food about in the illusion of consumption. The Captain sighed in frustration at the worsening situation. The two, along with d'Artagnan, had been furiously scouring the city non-stop for days, forgetting about all the niceties of life such as hygiene, eating and sleeping, trying to find a clue about the bald man and the green wagon that had apparently abducted Athos. It had taken a direct order, which was really a threat, to make the three stop long enough each day to eat, rest and perform some basic hygiene. Even now d'Artagnan had not yet returned, in spite of the fact that Treville had thought he'd been most specific about the rule of showing up in the garrison for dinner each evening.

As he was about to make his way down to once again lecture the errant musketeers, when an exuberant d'Artagnan burst thru the archway and made a beeline for the table where Porthos and Aramis resided. Quiet but animated conversation that did not filter up to Treville's level, occurred and suddenly all three men were on their feet and heading towards the archway.

"Stop!" the Captain commanded from his perch and the three men halted as one and turned in unison. As Treville made his way down the well-wore wooden stairway, he demanded, "Where are you going?"

The three men had the courtesy and the decency to appear a bit abashed at being caught trying to leave the Garrison without finishing, or in d'Artagnan's case starting their mandated evening meal. The Captain bound off the bottom tread, swiftly closing the gap between him and his men. "Did you forget the rule on eating and resting so quickly as that?" he snapped his fingers, as his eyes coolly raked each soldier.

d'Artagnan, always the eager puppy, bounced to the front. "We have a lead! A good solid lead on Athos!"

Treville was taken back a step, though he tried to keep his appearance neutral. It had been more than three weeks since Athos had gone missing. To find something, that might lead to an explanation of his disappearance was monumental. However, the Captain wasn't a man to be easily given over to hope, so he put a tight lid on his thoughts and feelings and spoke calmly. "What have you found?"

D'Artagnan drew in a breath and tried to provide a report to the Captain that didn't sound like three-year-old babbling. "We have been asking all the merchants in town if they have any customer that fits the description Nicholas provided us. We have had no luck until today when I asked a chandler, in the west-end of the city. He knows of a tall, bald man, with a limp, that drives a green, covered wagon!"

"That description, Cap, matches exactly what Nicholas told us," Porthos excitedly informed Treville, his dark, chocolate, brown eyes showing a glimmer of hope that had been absent for many weeks.

"Yes, I recall the boy's description. But why would a busy candle maker remember this particular man?" The former part of the question was directed towards Porthos and the latter d'Artagnan.

"Because the bald man buys a huge number of candles, all at once, when he comes into the shop. The bald man told the shopkeep the estate, where he serves, is quite distance from Paris and since his Lord is particularly fond of the scented candles this merchant makes, he stocks up."

"Did this candle maker perchance have a name or an indication of the estate's whereabouts?" Treville's eyes swept d'Artagnan's face praying his lips would answer yes, but he knew, the moment the boy's eyes broke contact and lowered, he was about to be disappointed.

D'Artagnan sadly shook his drooping head. "No."

A disappointed silence settled over the group for a few seconds before the young Musketeer added, "But he promised, the next time the man showed up, he'd let us know. That's something. Right?"

Porthos and Aramis both clapped their apprentice on opposite shoulders. "Absolutely," Aramis returned. "This is good news. You have done well, d'Artagnan." The farmer turned Musketeer's countenance brightened. The boy had taken his mentor's disappearance hard, as had they all.

As they grew introspective, their mood turned somber. Porthos and Aramis had known Athos a lot longer, and while maybe not understanding all his demons, they knew the depths of despair to which they could drive the man. It had crossed both their minds, more than once, that one day Athos' self-imposed demons might win, driving him from this earth. None-the-less, there had been no question in their minds they would love Athos with all their hearts, be his friend, his brother and his protector to the best of their abilities. They would go to hell and back for their beloved brother, as they knew he would for them.

The Captain cleared his throat to get their attention. "Let us celebrate this bit of good news with a proper meal." The Captain started herding his ducklings towards the Garrison's indoor dining area, with a guiding hand on arms and elbows. All four passed thru the doorway into the room, which housed a number of tables and chairs.

d'Artagnan, who wasn't as wise in the ways of the world, or Captain Treville, protested. "But Captain we need too..."

"...sit here," Treville indicated hooking his foot around a chair, pulling it out and gently, though firmly, pressing on d'Artagnan shoulder forcing him to sit, "while Serge brings us some food." Looking over his shoulder, he indicated to the man to bring whatever was the fair for the evening meal.

Aramis and Porthos remained standing, until a meaningful glance from their Captain had them slinking into chairs too. "As this is a bit of a celebration, let me run to my quarters and get a nice vintage of red I have there." Turning on his heels, he headed towards the door, stopping just shy of the threshold. "And," his piercing gaze swept them all one last time, "you'd better be right here, eating, when I return. Do I make myself clear?"

Three silent nods answered his question with d'Artagnan appearing contrite, Porthos amused and Aramis resigned. "Good." With that, the Captain left the room and Serge and his helper stomped over to their table placing platters and bowls of food in front of them.

"Thank you," Aramis graciously replied, which earned him a small friendly grunt from the man before he headed back to his kitchen.

Porthos handed round plates and they all proceeded to help themselves to the food. The delicious odors and the first bite made the three men realize how hungry they really were.

"The Captain is a good man," Porthos mumbled around a mouth full of stew.

"Yes, I am," the Captain, acknowledged humbly as he returned with the promised bottle of wine. Grabbing four tumblers, he filled them, before settling in the fourth empty chair at the table. A bit of sadness emerged, as each man unconsciously acknowledge where the Captain sat was the seat usually occupied by Athos.

"We'll find him," Aramis spoke with absolute certainty. "I believe that with all my heart and soul."

"But not, if you run yourself ragged." The Captain pushed the basket of bread closer to the pious man who took the hint, selected a piece, and dunked it in his gravy. "You can start your stakeout of the merchant's shop, after a good meal. It will still be there. Have you given any thoughts as to how you will work the rotation?"

It came as no surprise to the trio, that the Captain had already figured out their next move. The three musketeers passed guilty looks amongst themselves. "No Cap. Athos was the planner."

Treville softly smiled at Porthos, affirming the truth of his statement. "Well I can't have all three of you sitting outside the shop for God knows how long, waiting for a bald man, with the green wagon, to materialize."

Another round of guilty looks had the Captain giving a small grunt. None of the three men sitting around the table had put much thought into the best way to proceed. Their hearts were in the right place; their brains hadn't caught up yet. This group needed their de facto leader, Athos, as much as he needed them.

Aramis, realizing the folly of their misguided enthusiasm to follow up on this significant clue, sighed. "Perhaps we were a bit hasty to depart. A rotating schedule, so only one of us is absent at a time, would be a wise course of action. Assuming, that is alright with you, Captain."

Smiling sadly, Treville took a sip of wine before answering. "I miss him too." He paused a moment to reflect, then interject some reality into the situation. "You realize this is a very long shot."

Porthos, the pragmatist, grunted in acknowledge. "But it's the only one we got. I won't stop searching for Athos."

Three sets of brown eyes stared into the one blue set at the table. "Nor will I stop you. I only ask you do it smartly and carefully. And, you need to think for you own well-being. Sleeping. Eating. You know Athos would be devastated if something happened to any of you, because of him."

Aramis deliberately picked up his fork, speared a piece of meat, and brought it towards his face. "We understand." Popping the food into his mouth, he thoughtfully chewed, then swallowed.

Treville rose from the table. "That's all I ask." I'll leave you to your meal and planning." With that, he headed back to his office, content his mission had been accomplished.

The remaining three men finished their meal and their plans on how to keep an eye on the candle maker's shop. If wasn't exactly that they didn't trust the merchant to keep his word and call them if the tall, bald man came back. But it was their only lead to finding their missing brother, and they simply couldn't leave anything to God or chance. They all had enough sins on their souls to wonder if God still favored them, so due diligence was probably their best bet and that meant keeping watch with their own eyes.


	12. Chapter 12

CHAPTER 11

In the middle of the night, the injured man's moaning grew in a crescendo. While the other inmates seemed immune to the sound, it tore at Athos' sensibilities and he eventually rose and went to see if he could help the suffering Barge. In the dim moonlight that was filtering thru the high, barred windows of the cell, Athos could see that the man lying on the pallet was knocking on death's door. The musketeer had been in numerous battles and had seen the face of death enough times to know Barge was not long for this Earth.

Though he knew nothing of the man, he knew a fellow human being was suffering. Athos sat on the floor next to Barge, gently reached out and grasped the man's hand, offering the simple comfort of human touch. Barge seemed to appreciate the realization he wasn't alone, and his moaning grew quieter.

The moonlight crept across the prison floor, marking the passage of time, as Athos remained sitting next to Barge, holding his hand. The man's breathing grew shallower and eventually Barge's grip on his hand went slack and Athos knew the man had passed.

Reaching over, the musketeer swept his hand down Barge's face, closing his eyelids over his lifeless eyes. Struggling to remember the words of the benediction for the dead from the long ago days when Athos believed in God's mercy, he finally gave up and simply made the sign of the cross.

Wearily, Athos rose from the hard floor and stretched his cramped leg muscles. As he left Barge's cell to shuffle back to his own, head bowed in exhaustion, he had a distinct feeling of being watched. Cautiously raising his head to peer about him, he noted his act of kindness had not gone unnoticed by his fellow inmates. Not sure if that was a good thing or bad, Athos chose to ignore the stares, entering his cell, dropping heavily onto his pallet, and turning his back to the outside world.

Tonight, the melancholy and aloneness of his situation weighed heavily upon his soul. For the past five years, he thought what he wanted and deserved from life, was to be condemned and shunned for his misdeeds. His joining of the Musketeer's was only a means to an end; a way to try to atone for his horrendous sins, however much that was possible, while waiting for a swift death in battle.

However, he hadn't counted on Aramis and Porthos, who happened along and worried on him like a dog on a favorite bone. They were bound and determined to rehabilitate him and make him one of their brethren. It had been a long, uphill battle yet the two of them never gave up, no matter how much he had tried discouraging them in the early days. Athos hadn't even realized how successful their campaign had been until one day, he found he was missing them and actually craving their company. After living in darkness for so long, it had been an odd feeling, to occasionally have the urge, to seek out their company.

That had been a foundation shaking moment for him. At first, he had cursed them for somehow scaling his walls and getting inside the fortress that surrounded his heart. They took his days, which had been grey and dingy, and added a tinge of shininess due to their persistence and kindness.

His demons were by no means banished by the care and concern of his replacement brothers, but they had been beaten back considerably. So tonight he found himself lying in this prison cell, alone, missing his brothers, and hoping against all odds they would come to rescue him. How that was going to be possible, he had to idea. What he realized, before his eyes drifted shut from exhaustion, for the first time,in many weeks, he actually cared and hoped he would survive this situation.


	13. Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

Though the day would grow hot as the hours progressed, the morning started out cool and Athos was content to sit at one of the wooden tables in the common room, hands wrapped around a warm bowl of porridge. He didn't know if he would actually eat it, but for the moment, it was serving a useful purpose in his mind. While he would have much preferred to start his day off with a fortifying glass, or two, of red wine, that wasn't an option in his current environment.

In fact, since he'd been abducted, not a drop of his soul cleansing beverage had passed his lips; not by choice, but by the simple fact they were only provided water and sometimes ale to drink. That had been one of the trials of his first weeks of capture; being dried out. The Musketeer had silently suffered the side effects of the alcohol being purged from his body. This wasn't the first time he had gone 'cold turkey', so he had known what to expect, though that didn't mean it was any less unpleasant. But he had hid his distress from his fellow inmates and suffered in silence until the worse of the symptoms had subsided.

As Jehan entered the common room thru the tunnel and the low hum of conversation in the room slowly ground to a halt. "We have a match today," he stated without pretense. "Armand. You have been selected."

All the eyes in the room rotated to gaze at Athos, who slowly raised his dark head.

"Come with me," Jehan curtly instructed.

Athos stared at Jehan, his face a blank mask, before he rose with deliberation from the wooden bench to make his way across the common area. All the eyes in the room tracked him, and as Athos scanned them, he saw varying emotions portrayed to include disgust, envy, relief, and worry.

Jehan gave a grunt and the guard, swung open the door allowing the two men to enter the corridor. Passing thru the tunnel, they entered the training yard and continued to the far side where another guard let them into the courtyard with the well that Athos hadn't seen since the night of his arrival.

Still moving quickly, not at all hampered by his limp, Jehan led them to small stone building next to the guard house. This building's entryway was also barred by a locked door, for which Jehan possessed the key. He swung the heavy wooden door open to reveal an armory of sorts. Though not as extensive as Athos' own stash at his mansion, there was still a decent selection of swords, rapiers, main gauches, and other weapons.

Jehan moved to one side, and gestured across the equipment. "Choose your weapon for today's match."

Athos eyes swept the armory before moving back to Jehan. "I don't understand what is going on here."

With an impatient sigh, Jehan replied, "You have been chosen to participate in today's match. Select your weapons."

Athos' tone revealed his utter frustration with the situation. "What is this match you refer to?"

"Are you that daft? Do you not talk to your fellow man? "Jehan pointedly asked, his irritation clearly written on his face.

Athos gave him an indifferent shrug and a cool, haughty stare. "Conversation with my roommates is not a high priority on their list, or mine."

Jehan's was not surprised by the statement. It had not gone unnoticed by the trainer that Athos was a loner, though his compassion for Barge had reached his Jehan's ears and he'd been a bit surprised. "You knew what you signed up for."

A gruff laugh escaped Athos' lips. "I signed up for nothing. I was accosted in the night, shackled, and dragged here like a feral animal. I know very little of what this is all about and have been told even less. The only thing I do know is I am being detained here against my will."

Jehan face registered perplexity, as he began to think thru Athos' declaration. He vaguely recalled Corbett mentioning that one of the men, in the latest batch, had not come voluntarily and suddenly the pieces of puzzle fell in place; this must be the man. Though they didn't get the brightest people, the men recruited knew why they were being hired and what they were expected to do. If this man was shanghaied, it explained perfectly why he was so clueless.

"Marquis Lemione enjoys watching duels. As it happens, there are quite a number of nobles in the area that also enjoy the sport, especially the wagering part, so matches are arranged."

Athos' eyes narrowed as he frowned at the revelation and his voice turned as frosty as the arctic tundra, when he spoke. "The Marquis likes to watch men fight each other... for pleasure... and profit? Not for settling points of honor?"

"Well, you have the honor of being alive," Jehan stated matter-of-factly. "That is, if you win, of course."

Athos couldn't stop his mind from wandering back to an event of the past when he had been forced to duel with the Duke of Savoy. The Duke had refused to talk about a treaty, unless Athos bested him in a duel. The musketeer had been dubious and surprised when his Captain had given him a small nodded of concurrence, when he had looked at him for guidance. Except when he was drunk, or perhaps in the perverse mood, he didn't fight for reasons other than training, honor or survival. A stubborn gleam glinted in Athos' eyes as he crossed his arms over his chest. "And if I refuse?"

Something about the man in front of him grated on Jehan's nerves, but he couldn't put his finger on why. The ex-solider, trained to judge his opponents, knew from watching in training, this man was a better fighter then he let on. "I kill you now, and explain to our Lord that you suffered a tragic accident."

There was no doubt in Athos' mind, this man would carry out his threat, and he debated the success of launching an attack against him here and now. Even if he stuck the first blow, rendering Jehan unconscious, Athos knew his chance of escaping this prison was nil. As a trained warrior, Athos had noted the number of guards and locked gates between him and his freedom as he walked across the courtyard and knew the odds were not in his favor. His best bet was to continue on this charade and wait for a more strategic opportunity.

With a slight mock bow, Athos conceded the point. "Your logic makes great sense to me, Monsieur."

With a bit of flair, he walked over to examine the weapons available, testing the heft of a few, as well as their edges, before eventually selecting a rapier and parrying dagger. Peering about, he could see no holsters in which to secure the weapons. "Are there no belts?"

Making a giving gesture with his hands, Jehan indicated Athos was to hand the two items to him. "You'll get these back before the fight. Can't risk having you walking around with sharp objects. You might fall and hurt yourself." Or try to stab someone else, like me or a guard was the unspoken subtext that hovered in the air.

Only sporting the smallest of smirks, Athos politely offered the two swords, hilt first, to the waiting man. The men left the armory to head back into the main courtyard. The Captain, whom Athos had occasionally seen observing their practices from afar, stepped out onto his porch to track their progression across the open space. Jehan led Athos over to the front of the building, before stopping and indicating to Athos to wait, as the tall, lean, Captain, leisurely made his way down the worn, wooden stairs.

Once again, the Musketeer felt like a colt at an auction, as the Captain deliberately studied him from head to toe, walking completely around Athos before coming to a halt in front. The man didn't look very pleased as he turned to Jehan, completely dismissing Athos' presence. "He not very impressive. Will he win?"

Athos kept his thoughts and hands to himself, though there was a part of him that dearly wanted to show this man how 'impressive' he could be.

With a shrug and a non-committal grunt, Jehan replied, "He knows the basics well enough." Moving so he could stare directly at Athos, he deliberately added, "I actually think there is more to him than meets the eye."

While remaining outwardly calm, Athos inwardly pondered if this man had seen thru his ruse of pretense.

"This doesn't bode well for David. It was his number," the Captain informed Jehan.

The trainer gave a short hiss of displeasure. "Good lad."

"He knew when he signed up." With a dismissive wave, the Captain headed back up the stairs to his quarters.

Jehan motioned for Athos to follow, as he limped across the sandy courtyard, past the well, to the other gated tunnel on the far side of the area. Unlocking the door, Jehan motioned Athos into a cool, semi-dark space, which contained a few pieces of rundown furniture, to include a chair and rickety, scarred, oak table. It was on the latter that Jehan placed the weapons along with a whetstone he produced from his pocket.

"You'll wait here. Until it is time." With that he left, going to a second secured gate that led directly into the training arena.

After Jehan was gone, Athos made his way over to a third opening on the far side of the room and peered thru the rusted iron bars into the space beyond. Having learned its intended purpose, the layout of the arena in front of him now made perfect sense to Athos. The fighters had a large, sand-covered area, in which to maneuver. The audience sat around the edge, behind and above a stone half-wall, on raised platforms that offered a good view of the proceedings below, while still far enough away for safety concerns.

After a few minutes of studying the area in which he was expected to fight, Athos turned away, walking back to the table upon which the weapons laid. He picked up the rapier and examined it with a practiced and critical eye. The blade was not honed to an edge he found acceptable, nor had the sides been sharpened at all.

Athos had learned early on, as part of his musketeer training, to put razor-sharp edges on his rapier, at least partially up both sides of the slender blade. This allowed the sword to be both a stabbing device and a slashing piece. When engaged in a mortal combat, against all manner of weapons, the ability to slash ones opponent was a good tool to have in one's arsenal.

However, in this particular case, it didn't bother him, except from a professional-pride standpoint that the rapier was unwhetted, because he had no intention of engaging his opponent, let alone try to kill him. Athos had no qualms killing a person that earned it as their fate. But he would be damned he would kill someone because a deranged Marquis got sick pleasure from watching two innocent men battle. That was a fight, in which Athos was not willing to participate.

Turning his attention to the main gauche, he hefted it in his right hand then put it back down on the tabletop with a disgusted sigh. As a blocking device, it would suffice but the balance was horrible and it certainly would not fly true if he were forced to throw it, a maneuver at which he was quite skilled. But again, since he had no intention of tossing it at his opponent, it was immaterial.

The thought of heaving it at the Marquis' heart did flit thru his mind before he cast it aside. He only had Jehan's word on what was occurring here. If this Marquis was truly perpetrating criminal acts, he should be brought before the court for a fitting punishment. As a Comte, he once had to serve as the judge for a criminal act on his estate, the murdering of his brother by his beloved wife. To this day, the fallout from that event still haunted his soul and had been a contributing factor into his abduction and why he was where he found himself today. He never wanted to be a judge again. Let the King, the court and God play those roles.

The sound of voices and footsteps drifted to his ears, from the arena, and he wandered over to the gate, which separated the two areas, to see what was occurring. Instincts always in play, he stayed in the murky shadows to stealthily observe thru the bars. From his advantage point, he was able to see most of the arena.

Men and a few women were filing onto the raised seating platforms and based on their appearance and wardrobe, they were not of the peasant class. They were followed by servants who, unlike the nobles, didn't settle upon any of the chairs but stood towards the rear, ready to jump at their master's whim. A number of armed guards, sporting the liveries of their liege's household, were also scattered about the audience and if he used them as an indicator, Athos could surmise there were four noble's households represented in the congregation. With mild curiosity, he studied the four men he reckoned to be the nobles and wondered which one was the Marquis that owned this estate.

The last person to enter the arena did not head for the viewing stands, but rather was flanked by two guards, who led him into the sandy portion of the arena. While neither his hands nor feet were shackled, his demeanor screamed captive. He was marched to the center of the floor and handed a sword and dagger before the duo of guards, neatly pivoted and marched their way back to the entrance where they took up their post.

Behind Athos, the gate from the training area opened, admitting Jehan, who picked up the two weapons from the table as he passed by. "Time to go."

Walking past Athos, Jehan unlocked the door into the arena, and then gestured with the sword for Athos to precede him into the space. Keeping his face nondescript, a skill he exceeded at, Athos brushed past Jehan and entered the sunshine filled arena. It was past noon by Athos' reckoning and the heat from the blazing sun was already making it unbearable, and he sorely wished he had his hat.

Typically, in a duel, a hat was a liability, unless you were Aramis who had been known to use his hat, to his advantage, as a weapon. However, as Athos wasn't planning on actually doing anything strenuous, it would have been pleasant to have his hat to shade his dark head. The hat would not be an encumbrance, since his plans were merely to stand around, annoying both his opponent and the audience, he suspected. Actual fighting was not on his agenda.

Jehan moved up alongside of him, and guided him to a spot, twenty paces from his opponent, before handing him the rapier and main gauche, he'd been carrying. Athos accepted them, gave the sword a little flourishing swing before giving a mock salute, with it, to Jehan. The man's face turned dark red and anger flashed in his eyes at the perceived insult and Athos knew he'd pay for his flippancy later. Without a word, Jehan stalked off to join the other guards by the entry way that lead to the main courtyard and the outside world.


	14. Chapter 14

CHAPTER 14

Athos let his eyes sweep across the audience quickly before focusing on his opponent. The warrior was approximately Athos' height and weight and had this been a serious fight, body composition would not be a factor in the outcome since they were about equal. Running a keen eye over the man's weapons, Athos ascertained they were of slightly better quality than the ones he was holding. However, judging the way they were being griped, the wielder was not totally comfortable with them; unlike a true expert Musketeer whose rapier was an extension of their arm, the main gauche a hand, and the musket a lethal eye.

Over in the stands, Athos could hear a round of lively betting occurring between the four Comtes, on the outcome of the contest. Wagers were being made, accepted, and recorded by a rather hassled looking man in spectacles.

The flinty, brown eyes of his competitor were locked on Athos, who realized he was being evaluated. "I have no intention of fighting you," Athos announced to his opponent, in a low, clipped voice.

Puzzlement instantaneously flashed across the face of the fighter, standing across from him. "What?"

Patiently, Athos explained his position. "I have no grudge against you and I refuse to fight for the sport of others."

Athos' eyes meaningfully wandered over to the audience of Lords, but his opponent didn't track. The confused look remained on his foe's face, as he repeated, "What?"

Slowly and with exaggerated annunciation, Athos said, "I...am...not...going...to...fight...you."

A horn sounded from somewhere in the viewing stands, which had no meaning for Athos, but apparently did for his adversary who immediately raised his sword and took a swing at Athos. It was child's play for the lithe Musketeer to avoid the slash easily, with a simple backward step. He debated if reiterating the fact he had no intentions of fighting would be of any use at this junction. After taking a few more dancing steps to avoid being gutted by his opponent who kept swinging his sword, Athos decided to try one last time. "Please, stop," he asked politely as he moved out of reach again. "It is stupid for us to fight."

His competitor uttered his first, albeit, short, clear and concise sentence of their acquaintance. "Shut up and fight."

With a disappointed sigh, Athos eluded the next poorly aimed thrust before simply walking away, his weapons hanging slackly at his sides, as his opponent, who had over-extended his reach, fought to find his equilibrium. Once he was steady, he looked up and was shocked to see his quarry casually moving across the arena away from him. His jaw dropped open and he stood still for a moment, trying to process this bizarre behavior. The blond haired man had no clue what was the matter with his opponent but he knew his job; win the duel. So with a roar, he charged across the dirt floor after the retreating Athos.

His foe was making so much noise with his oncoming attack, Athos didn't even have to turn around but simply stepped to the side, out of the way, and watched as his rival swung and missed again, as his momentum continued to propel him well past where Athos calmly stood with a mask of indifference.

"What the hell is the matter with you?" he screamed at Athos, as he recovered his balance and turned to face the disinterested musketeer.

In an even tone of voice, with a slight tilt of his eyebrow, Athos repeated his position. "I don't want to fight."

"Then why are you here?" the baffled man inquired, momentarily putting a halt to anymore of his charges.

In a courtly manner, Athos asked, "May I inquire as to your name?"

Puzzlement once again graced his opponent's countenance, but he did answer. "Garrett."

"Garrett," Athos evenly confirmed. "Well Garrett, I have no clue why I am here, but I can assure you, it is not because I want to be." The bewildered look on Garrett's face lingered, and Athos sighed. Keeping it simple was going to be the key. Athos pointed in the general direction on the stands. "They want us to fight." Then he tapped himself on the chest. "I don't want to."

Garrett must have been following the basic concept Athos was conveying because his answer was to move forward and take another swing at the dark-haired musketeer while announcing, "I want to fight. And win!"

Moving out of the path of the swinging sword as easily as he had all the previous attempts, Athos decided to give up trying to persuade Garrett to join his non-violent stance. Instead, he would just keep avoiding Garrett's rather pitiful attempts to skewer him until the man grew tired and gave up of his own free will.

For the next five minutes, Athos kept leisurely moving about the arena in random patterns, always managing to keep out of the reach of Garrett's weapons. Luckily, it never occurred to his opponent to try to throw his dagger at Athos. Perhaps the man knew his ability in that area made it non-starter.

While it was not taking, a lot of effort on Athos' part to stay ahead of his foe, it was very hot in the arena and the Musketeer found he was soon drenched in sweat. His mood grew darker and his anger increased, not at his hapless opponent, but at the man responsible for this whole sick event.

If Garrett was confused by the manner in which this fight was being conducted, the audience was even more so as they had not been privy to Athos' earlier declaration of peace. They couldn't figure out why one man was trying to engage in battle and the other appeared out for a Sunday stroll.

When one of Athos' rotations had him passing close-by where Jehan stood, the trainer hissed, "What the hell are you doing?"

Athos momentarily halted, keeping one eye on Garrett, who was presently halfway across the arena, while he patiently explained to Jehan, "I told you. I have no intentions of fighting."

The lead trainer shook his head in categorical disbelief. "So you're just gonna walk around in circles all-day?"

"If I must," Athos confirmed, once again stepping out of the way of Garrett's rush, whose momentum, unfortunately, carried him into the three guards who, unlike Athos, did not get out of the way in time.

Athos stood serenely to one side, out of harm's way, and watched as Garrett, Jehan and the two unnamed guards, went down in a heap, then struggled to untangle themselves. Judging on the glares being directed at him by the three non-participants in this fight, plus his opponent, discretion had Athos relocating to the far side of the arena.

Another period of dodge-sword ensued, leaving Athos a bit sweatier and Garrett drenched and panting. The four noblemen in the stands were livid; they had come to watch and wager on a fight, not a dancing exhibition. When it became clear that no battle was occurring, the exasperated Marquis Lemione indicated for Jehan to attend him. The trainer made his way to his Lord's side, a fact that did not go unnoticed by Athos, who finally was able to determine which one of the nobles was Jehan's employer and by default his captor.

"What is going on!" the surly Marquis demanded of his lead trainer.

Even from his distance, Athos could see Jehan's discomfort in his body language. Jehan didn't meet his boss eyes as he muttered, "He doesn't want to fight, my Lord."

A well-bred man doesn't let his mouth fall open to catch flies, and Lemione was struggling to ensure his jaw didn't drop to his chest. "He was hired to fight!"

Shifting his weight from foot to foot, Jehan was forced to contradict his superior. In a soft voice that wouldn't carry to the other Lords, Jehan explained, "Corbett got him off the streets." A quick glance at his Lord showed him he wasn't following. "You didn't hire him. Corbett abducted him."

The light dawned on the Marquis. "I see. But he isn't the first one. Corbett can't always hire all the fighters I require and sometimes is forced to use alternative means. But they always fight when out in the arena." The Marquis raised his eyes to watch the two men in the arena, who were still performing their non-lethal ballet. "This one doesn't appear as if he plans to engage."

One of the other Lords leaned over. "What is going on here, Lemione? I came to wager on a fight, not a dance."

"As did we all," the Marquis soothingly replied. In an aside whisper to his man, he asked, "Will he fight?"

Jehan knew his boss wasn't going to like what he had to say. "I don't think so, Sir."

The Marquis made a swift decision as he straightened in his chair. "It appears my fighter is...ill."

Being gracious, the other Comte's allowed the Marquis his bold-face lie. After all, he was a step above them and it wouldn't do to get on his bad side. They all sympathetically nodded. "A pity," one said with fake remorse.

"Since wagers have been made, and I am a fair man," the heads around him nodded in faux concurrence, "I shall declare my man the loser. All of you, who bet on Comte de Marquois' fighter, win."

Cheers and groans punctuated the audience depending on how they wagered. As the other Lords went about settling their purses, Marquis Lemione stood and drew Jehan away with him. "I suggest, Jehan," his voice dripping with threat, "you figure out how to get that man to fight before he steps into my arena again. My stable," he said referring to his group of fighters, not horses, "is thin enough and recently, my monetary losses have been significant."

The Marquis glanced back into the arena for a few seconds, watching Athos once again easily foiling his opponent without actually engaging in battle. "I think," he said thoughtfully as his eyes narrowed, "there is more than meets the eye to that man. For some reason, he looks vaguely familiar to me, though I can't imagine why."

Had Athos been a part of this conversation, he could have suggested a number of possible scenarios to include that the Marquis may have seen him at the palace. Jehan had the same opinion as his employer, though he was a bit surprise they had both reached the same conclusion. Jehan had been watching Athos over the last few weeks and had decided the man knew more about swordplay than he was letting on. In fact, he was pretty sure the man had been manipulating his situation, to include getting moved into a more advanced group. And today's performance in the ring, cemented the idea in Jehan's mind. It took no small amount of talent to actually avoid a fight.

"With the number of losses I have endured of late, one might have to wonder if I should be searching for a new head trainer." The thinly veiled threat hung heavy in the air between the two men and Jehan humbly lowered his eyes again so as not to appear confrontational. "Get him to fight, Jehan," and though not spoken, the 'or else' was clearly understood by both parties.

Jehan made a slight deferential bow, keeping his eyes trained on the ground. "Yes, my Lord."

Marquis Lemione's eyes strayed back to the arena again. "Get him out of there. It is embarrassing." As he turned to join the rest of the Lords, he added, "And the sacrifice goes. This was a loss."

Jehan's face crumbled with despair. "No my, Lord. Please. This wasn't a true loss!"

"Do you see money in my hand?" He waved his bejeweled fingers thru the air. "No. I have to go pay those other Comte's because my fighter didn't fight." The Marquis firmly shook his head. "My decision stands. Have the chosen readied. I will attend to it as soon as I get these jackals on their way."

The Marquis plastered a fake smile on his face and rejoined his peers, taking their good-natured ribbing in stride, even though he was seething inside having been made to look like a fool by the man in the ring.

Jehan, anger roiling, stormed out of the stands and into the arena. "It's over," he shouted at the two fighters.

Garrett, who had been preparing to make another futile attempt to stab his rival, stopped and looked askance. "Who won?"

Jehan grimaced because in his mind no one had won. However, it was a fair question since this was supposed to have been a duel. He succinctly replied, "You. Go."

A gleeful Garrett made his way back to the two guards from his Lord's household and soon the three disappeared back into the main courtyard. In the meantime, Jehan furiously strode over to Athos and demanded the weapons, which Athos passively handed to him.

"Follow me." Jehan strode back to the locked gate that led to the room between the arena and the training area, his fury displayed in every measured stride.

Once inside, the room, with both gates secured, Jehan viciously rounded on Athos. "If I had my way, I'd kill you now and be done with it," he spat, making his feelings abundantly clear.

Athos folded his arms across his chest appearing infuriatingly uninterested. "I told you I had no intentions of fighting and I am a man of my word."

"Well, man of your word, I hope you can live knowing your actions will cause the death of an innocent."

Athos stared at him warily. "No one has died."

Without warning, Jehan took the main gauche and smacked the unsuspecting Athos in the temple with it. Caught totally off-guard, Athos stumbled from the force of the blow, dropping to his knees in the dirt. A second vicious swing from Jehan knocked him out cold and he sprawled on the ground. Unable to control his ire, the trainer landed a few swift kicks to the downed man's ribcage, torso, and legs, before finally reining in his anger.

He forced himself to walk away, calling out through the gate for a few of the other inmates to attend him. After unlocking the door and stepping into the training arena, Jehan instructed two men to drag the unconscious Athos to his cell. "And don't be gentle about it," he advised as he strode off towards the armory to return the weapons.

As charged, each man grabbed one of Athos' ankles and dragged him across the dirt floor of the training area. His head scraped unmercifully on the hard, packed, surface, as soil, ground itself into his exposed skin. Athos certainly had not gone out of his way to make any friendships amongst this group and it showed in the dispassionate way he was hauled along, with no one expressing any concern or remorse. After dumping him in his cell, the rest of the group wandered back to the common room to wait for their dinner.


	15. Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15

Athos was rudely awoken by the act of a cold bucket of water being dumped over his head. A deep groan escaped his lips as the throbbing in his brain made it clearly known that it was unhappy at this wake up call. Reaching a tentative hand to touch the side of his forehead, he felt stickiness and when he withdrew his fingers, they came back coated in blood. Rough hands pulled him into sitting position, propping him up against the wall to ensure he remained upright. A grungy wet rag was dropped on his slack hands.

"Clean yourself up," a disembodied voice instructed.

Reluctantly, Athos slowly raised his half-shut eyes, to peer out from under his wet, matted hair. He was greeted with the sight of a surly guard, impatiently hovering near him.

The guard's booted foot lashed out, kicking him in the thigh. "Wake up!"

Athos was forced to shut his eyes, as another wave of pain crashed over him. Not only was his head pounding, but a quick inventory of the rest of his body parts made him realize he felt as if he had been wrestling with Porthos. The sound of sloshing water met his ears and when he gingerly opened his eyes again, he saw a full bucket of water being placed on the floor near his feet.

"Clean up. Jehan wants you in the common room, now." With that, the guard gave Athos one more kick for good measure before departing his cell leaving him alone in his misery.

Athos was having a hard time getting his mind to stay focused. The memories of the fight, and the beating by Jehan afterwards, slowly came back to him. The part of his mind that was operating suggested it might be a bad idea to irritate Jehan any more by not reporting, promptly, to the common area as instructed.

Eyeing the bucket of water at his feet, Athos decided to apply his remedy for hangovers to this situation. Even though he was stone sober at the moment, his head was pounding as badly as it did after one of his all-night binges. Rolling onto his knees, he laboriously crawled over to the bucket. Hazily peering into its' depths, he decided the water appeared reasonably clean, so he held his breath and slowly sunk his head into its tepid depths.

It was nowhere near as cold as he would have preferred to try to shock his brain into submission. When his lungs protested the lack of air, he withdrew his head and sat back on his haunches, the water from his hair running in rivulets down his face, neck, and back. Picking up the rag, which had been tossed at him earlier, he rinsed it out a few times before using it to scrub at his grimy face then delicately mop at the abrasion on his left temple. After a bit, the rag appeared to come away clean which Athos took as a good sign that the bleeding had ceased. Now only if the drums in his head would follow suit.

Carelessly tossing the rag back into the bucket, he levered off his knees, to rise to a standing position. It took a moment for him to catch his balance, and at one point he was forced to lunge for the bars of his cells to remain upright. Eventually his equilibrium settled down and he cautiously made his way out of his cell and down the corridor to the common area, although his ability to walk a straight line was somewhat impaired.

As he entered the common area all conversation halted and every eye in the room turned angrily to glare at him. Their animosity was intense and unnerved Athos, considering he was the one that had been beaten. He knew there was no love lost between them, but this outright hatred seemed extreme.

With a little bobble, he made his way to an empty bench and wearily sunk onto it. The vibe of repulsion hung in the air, and every eye was still glued on him with disdain. While he was tempted to ask what he had done to deserve this ire, his past experience told him no one would answer. Instead, he folded his forearms on the table and lowered his aching head onto them, too weary to worry about putting his body in such a defenseless position.

When Athos heard the gate being unlocked, he sluggishly raised his pounding head to see who was at the door. When he saw it was Jehan who was making his way across the common room towards him, Athos painfully rose to his feet. Jehan gave him the once over, obviously found him lacking, then grunted then turned away. "Follow me."

The trainer made his way back to the door that lead to the tunnel with Athos trailing behind. All the hateful eyes in the room tracked him until he was gone. Once in the tunnel, a second guard who was carrying a length of rope joined them.

The guard held of the rope. "Hands behind your back."

After Athos agonizingly complied, the position making his bruised ribs and shoulders ache even more, the guard used the rope zealously to secure his hands. Jehan gave a nod of approval before giving Athos a small shove to get him moving again.

Unable to keep his balance, the musketeer stumbled to his knees and was unable to stifle a groan as his kneecaps slammed into the hard packed dirt. "A simple request to move would have worked," Athos ground out between clenched teeth.

In a brutal manner, the guard manhandled him back onto his feet.

Once upright, Athos shook free of his grip. "I hope you aren't expecting a thank you," he sarcastically stated.

The guard stepped forward to retaliate, but Jehan stepped in and commanded him to stop. "Enough." Clearly unhappy, the guard backed down.

Switching his gaze to Athos, Jehan warned, "You need to keep your mouth shut and quietly follow me, or so help me God I will kill you." Jehan haughtily stared at Athos, begging him to give him an excuse to forget the Marquis orders.

Not always being suicidal in nature, Athos kept his swollen lips firmly pressed closed and did as instructed, though his defiant nature was simmering under the surface of his feign obedient attitude.

The guard stayed behind as the two men made their way outside of the prison complex into a world Athos hadn't seen since he'd been captured all those weeks ago. While excited to be outside the walls, because of his injuries, he was barely able to keep up a steady pace and Athos realized he had to forgo any thoughts of escape. He knew he was concussed and in no condition to do a bunk.

At one point he was forced suddenly to stop as the contents of his stomach had the unbidden urge to see daylight. Jehan wrinkled his nose in disgust as the Musketeer repetitively heaved and as soon as Athos was done, signaled him to move out. The stress on his ribs from vomiting made them scream with pain and Athos had to take a firm mental hold on his mind and body to keep it from trying to escape into oblivion. He was sure if he fainted now he'd never wake again. With Herculean effort, he forced his torso upright and commanded his legs to move forward.

The two men entered into a thick grove of trees, which they wove their way thru until coming upon a small clearing. At the edge trees, Jehan signaled a halt. Athos swept the area with his eyes, noting that standing in the middle of the space was three posts with a set of rusty chains and shackles attached to them. Currently occupying the space was the serving lad who had shown kindness to Athos when he had first arrived. The boy was secured tightly by the ankles and wrists, so constricted that he didn't seem able to move more than an inch. His back was up against the third pole and a chain around his neck kept his head immobile. Athos could see the tracks the boy's tears had made down his redden cheeks.

"What's going on here?" Athos demanded more in the manner of a king's musketeer then the prisoner he was.

"This," Jehan gestured towards the chained boy, "is all your doing."

Athos' eyes flickered between Jehan's and the boy's face. "I don't understand."

Disgust and loathing colored Jehan's reply. "Did you think your game this afternoon would go unpunished?"

Athos' rising anger was not doing good things to his battered body and he swayed before catching his balance. "It was my choice not to fight. What has the boy to do with it?"

"Because he was the chosen. The one that dies if the Lord loses the duel!" Though he wanted to take out his sword and drive it thru Athos' heart, Jehan kept his emotions in check, barely.

Athos' stomach lurched and he had to stomp down on it firmly to keep it in place. "What sort of sick game is this?" he croaked.

"Not yours or mine to make the rules of!" Jehan pointed to the break in the trees from which Marquis Lemione appeared carrying two pistols. "It's his!"

The Marquis walked towards the imprisoned, terrified boy, coming to a halt less than fifteen feet away.

Athos' eyes were clouded with horror. "He means to shoot the boy?" Attempting to launch himself to save the child, Athos was quickly brought to the ground by Jehan.

"Do try to be quiet over there. You are disturbing my concentration," the Marquis scolded as he examined his weapons.

Athos vainly continued to struggle, but Jehan, who was straddling him, was able to keep him contained. A light tap on the side of Athos' wounded skull also helped quell the man's movements without rendering him totally unconscious.

Athos' head lulled as his wits were once again scrambled. Jehan reached forward, secured a hold in Athos' dark waves, and savagely jerked his head upward, forcing him to stare at the crying boy. Leaning downward, he hissed in his captive's ear. "When you thought to defy the Lord with your stupidity this afternoon, you condemned that innocent boy to death."

As Athos listened and comprehended what he was being told, tears welled up in his eyes from the pain on his soul, not his body. Again, his actions were causing pain and suffering to the innocent.

Jehan continued on with his tale. "When you arrived you were given a number."

Athos gave the slightest nod, as much as he could with his head firmly secured in Jehan's hand.

"Almost every servant on the estate has a number except a very few of us. And if we disobey our Lord, we are likely to get numbers too. Before each duel, the Marquis draws a number and if he loses, whoever has that number, dies."

"That's barbaric," Athos declared with loathing.

Across the grove, the Marquis squared his shoulders, took his stance, and raised the first pistol.

"Stop!" Athos screamed as his body jolted underneath Jehan's hold. "Kill me instead. The boy did nothing!"

Not even indicating he heard Athos' plead, the Marquis eased the trigger back and fired. As the bullet headed towards the boy, Athos shrieked again and attempted to buck Jehan off his back. Other than causing Jehan to lose his grip on his head, neither event brought any real results as he remained trapped and the bullet found its mark. The projectile rang true and the boy slumped as much as the chains allowed.

Throwing his spent firearm on the ground, the Marquis casually strolled over to where Athos lay, face first on the ground, his shoulders shaking as his tears fell mingled with the dirt. Nodding to his trainer, Jehan got off Athos' back and hauled him to his feet to face the Marquis. Athos' red-rimmed eyes defiantly stared at the man, not the least bit ashamed of the moisture lingering within. "You're a monster," Athos accused which earned him a violent slap across the face from Jehan, nearly causing him to blackout. The edges of his vision darken and once again, only supreme will kept him conscious.

The Marquis first regarded him like an unruly colt who unsuccessfully tried to bite its master. Then his expression deepened, as he tried to puzzle out why this man seemed vaguely familiar. "Silly for me to ask I suppose, but have we ever met?"

Having had some time to reflect since he first saw the Marquis in the arena, Athos now knew they had met. Twice. Once, was when Athos was a young lad. He had actually visited this estate with his father on some long since forgotten business. The second time was more recent but from afar, when the Marquis had come to court and Athos had been one of the King's guards. However, he had no plan to mention either time to the sadistic man in front of him so he remained mute.

"No matter. It is highly unlikely that I could have had any dealings with a peasant such as you," Lemione said dismissing the subject and going back to treating Athos like a farm animal. He focused his attention back on Jehan, totally ignoring Athos' existence. "Take care of the body and be sure to bring my gun, properly cleaned, back to the house." Without a further glance at either Athos or the dead boy, the Marquis strolled out of the clearing, whistling a little tune.

Athos stood there, swallowing hard. Pure hatred for the Marquis circled thru his body and soul and he silently vowed he would kill him. The man was pure evil.

Grabbing Athos by his tied hands, Jehan forced him to walk with him towards the posts where the dead boy hung. With a shove, he toppled Athos to the ground. "Stay there," he instructed.

Athos rolled onto his butt and splayed his legs to keep his balance as he sat on the ground. Jehan moved over to the boy, withdrew a key from his pocket, and started undoing the shackles.

Athos watched in silence for a moment before his need to understand overwhelmed him. "Why would anyone stay here, knowing they may randomly die?"

The answer Jehan supplied was something that ruled thru the ages. "Money. And hope that if the Lord decides you provide an especially valuable service, you can come off the list. Of course, he can also put you back on too for indiscretions."

"The money is that great?" Athos murmured before realizing that was probably not something someone without means would say.

Jehan stopped removing the boy's ankle from one of the shackles and looked quizzically at Athos. "You truly are more than you seem," he stated before going back to his task. "When you are poor, you will do a lot, especially if you have a family to support."

The darkness trying to overcome his mind was creeping upon him again and Athos kept talking in hopes of keeping it at bay. "So," Athos attempted to sum up this bizarre household, "people agree to work here because they can make a decent wage..."

"Very decent..." Jehan interjected removing the limp boy's wrist from its' prison.

"...knowing they might be taken out in the woods and shot like a rabid dog," the Musketeer concluded.

The last shackle came undone and the boy dropped to the ground with a sickening thump. Even though the boy was dead and past feeling, the noise, along with Athos' concussed state, made the man's stomach churn as he quickly turned his head and dry-heaved once again.

Jehan ignored him, picking the child up, and slinging him over his shoulder. "Get up."

Expecting Athos to obey, Jehan headed to the far side of the clearing before plunging into the tree-line. Athos unsteadily rose to his feet and stumbled behind. His head was throbbing and every muscle in his body aching. Without his hands and arms free for balance, his dizziness caused him to trip and fall a few times.

Jehan finally came to a halt beside a large rock formation. A faint, malodorous, stench permeated the air around the crevice in the rock formation. It was this gap, into which Jehan carelessly tossed the dead body of the servant boy. "Natural fissure. Makes disposal of the bodies easier. Guessing something down there picks the bones clean."

Athos' complexion, which normally tended somewhat towards pallor, grew even paler. "How many are down there?" he questioned in a hoarse, disbelieving voice.

Jehan shrugged indifferently as he turned away. "Lost count."

Though not much a man of faith, Athos wished, his hands were free so, he could make the sign of the cross for these poor souls. He had to content himself with mentally doing it, along with a renewed vow to bring this to an end and kill all of those involved.


	16. Chapter 16

CHAPTER 16

Aramis wasn't sure if God was punishing him for his lack of faith as it had rained most of the watches he drew at the chandler's shop. Though he was dressed in an oilskin cape and a wide brimmed hat, the rain still managed to find ways to worm inside his protections onto his dry skin. They had been watching the chandler's shop for more weeks, with no sign of the limping, bald headed man for which they were waiting.

Sighing, he attempted to wedge his dampened body further under the overhang of the roof, where he had sought shelter when the rains began again. The overhang really didn't help and he gave a little shake of his head to dislodge the water collecting on the brim of his hat. Somehow, a stream of the water ran off the brim and down the back of his neck, causing him to utter some phrases that definitely would have had him expelled from the church, had he decided to make that his vocation instead of musketeer.

Aramis' mind wandered to his fellow Musketeers as he kept vigil in the never-ending monsoon. A farmer, a street urchin, a Comte and a wanna be priest. All very different, yet all the same in one account; their love and devotion to each other. Anyone one of them would gladly give his life to save his brother. They stuck with each other thru thick and thin, good times and bad. They bolstered each other's spirits when they were low, and celebrated when things were going well.

With Athos missing, Aramis refused to think he was dead, it felt like a limb from his body had been removed; like a four legged stool where one spindle was missing. One could keep their balance, but it took a lot more concentration, time, and effort, and one was always at risk of being unceremoniously being dumped on the ground. To him, that is what Athos' disappearance was doing to their team. They were functioning, but always slightly off balance.

Athos, Aramis' frustrated mind sighed. Since the minute they had met the man he, Porthos, and more recently, d'Artagnan had been attempting to scale the stoic man's fortress walls. The man kept his heart, emotions, and pain locked and chained in a place that was nearly unreachable by anyone.

When Aramis had learned of what happened to Athos' brother Thomas, it gave him an inkling of some of the man's depth of despair, even more so when learning of Milady's involvement in the affair. It was Aramis' personal opinion that one of the reasons that Athos could not get past this tragic event was he really didn't know the truth of the matter.

The romantic musketeer knew that Milady claimed that Thomas had forced himself upon her and she had to kill him. She declared she did it for love, for her and Athos' happiness, though what kind of joy was brought on by killing your husband's only brother was beyond Aramis' comprehension.

Even though he didn't know the absolute truth of what happened that day, perhaps Athos could have learned to accept his decision to do justice and get beyond the sorted affair except for one more fact; the Comte de la Fere still had feelings for his wife. Whether it was love, or something else, who could say? Aramis didn't think even Athos truly knew what continued to draw him to this woman who had done such terrible things. Athos' honor and his basic decency told him it was wrong to have feelings for the evil and wanton woman, and yet he did.

That was the crux of the problem. Athos was in a constant flux of emotions where, when he lost the reins on his guilt-ladened soul, he plunged down the slippery, self-destructive slopes of despair. And when that happened, things got bad.

In the years that Aramis had known Athos, he had seen him tumble down that rabbit hole many times, usually with the help of copious quantities of wine. He and Porthos had learned to recognize some of the signs and triggers of an impending decline, and strove to try to course correct. When that wasn't possible, they stood by their brother's side, as he put himself thru his self-inflicted torture and made sure he came out the other end relatively unscathed. When despondent, and far enough into his cups, Athos had a tendency to pick fights, always with multiple opponents, as if a single foe was unworthy of his attentions.

Even drunk, Athos' superior swordsmanship usually won the mock battles; though the definition of 'won' wasn't perhaps the typical one. Won meant the Musketeer wasn't slain, though it didn't mean he wasn't beaten within an inch of his life. And at times, Aramis was pretty sure that was Athos' intent; taunting life and hoping he would be struck dead as a punishment for the sins his mind told him he committed.

Many conversations had ensued over the years between the brothers yet they had never been totally successful in convincing Athos to give up his guilt. Athos would let them scale the walls of his fortress and even occasionally pass over the top. But when they dropped down the far side, they quickly discovered their hard-earned efforts thwarted by yet another wall. And yet they loved him, without reservation, and knew he felt the same. None of them were without their demons.

A tap on his shoulder let Aramis know how deeply he had let his mind wander. With a start, he reached for his sword, albeit way too late had this turned out to be an enemy. But he quickly realized it was Porthos, who had reached out and touched his arm again.

With compassionate eyes, the gentle giant said, "I miss him too." Clapping a hand on his fellow Musketeer's shoulder, he forced him forward. "Come on. The shop's closed, the weather's miserable, and the Captain will have our hides if we don't show up for dinner. Nothing more to be done here tonight."

Aramis walked alongside of the taller man, knowing what he said was the truth. Standing here in the rain, wasn't going to make Athos appear. "Is it nuts to be standing here every day, watching a shop, in hopes the right man will appear?"

Porthos stepped over a puddle in the muddy street as he considered the question. "I suppose we could trust the chandler at his word that he would come get us if the bald man showed up. We can't stand here watching forever."

In many ways, Porthos was the most practical of all of them and the fact that he grew up on the streets of Paris had a lot to do with that Aramis suspected. Practicality kept you alive, with food in your belly and a roof over your head. The odd thing was despite being a practical man, Porthos was by far the most sentimental of the group; his heart was wide and deep.

Unlike Aramis or Athos, Porthos was comfortable within his own skin. Athos was always trying to hide and forget that he was born the Comte de la Fere. Aramis was always battling with his devotion to God and his love of a less-than-Godly lifestyle. Even their newest recruit was always striving to overcome what he felt were his inferior, farmer roots. But Porthos accepted himself for what he truly was: a man with a foot on the white square and a foot on the black; a once illiterate child who was now a self-taught man; a warrior of great strength with the soul of a poet. He gave the punches as well as he rolled with them. His skin fit him very well indeed.

Aramis, if he were to reflect on his inner man, didn't have the depths of demons that plagued Athos, but was in no way as accepting of who he was as Porthos. As a family unit, he and Porthos were the middle children. d'Artagnan, their younger brother looked up to them, but worshipped their eldest brother and that was OK with them. They themselves looked up to, and admired their eldest brother, but didn't go as far as hero-worship like their youngest sibling. Aramis and Porthos had been around the block a few times with Athos, knew his warts, and weren't above, in the name of love, taking him down a notch on occasion.

Porthos was the middle child that had found himself. Aramis was the middle child still searching for his identity. He thought when he was younger, he wanted to marry and settle down when God threw that in his lap with Isabella's pregnancy. Then when that was taken away, Aramis reimaged himself into the gallant playboy that loved and admired all women.

Lately however, Aramis had found his thoughts turning back to the church again. If he were to be brutally honest with himself, he probably knew why the winds blowing towards the pious life seemed attractive. His first love, Isabella, was dead. His second love, the Queen, was unattainable. In truth, if he couldn't have the Queen, he didn't think he was able to love another. The church offered an easy way out. He would give his life to God and not be expected to love anything else.

"You taking over Athos' brooding since he's gone?" Porthos inquired as they passed thru the archway of the Garrison. He had noticed his partner's pensive mood as they had walked home.

An easy smile graced Aramis' handsome face. "My apologies. And I think you are right."

Porthos' mile-wide grin lit up the night. "I like being right. And it's even better when I know what I'm right about."

"What you said earlier. At the shop. We can't stand outside its' door forever. And while it doesn't mean we are giving up, I think we need to trust God and the chandler, to keep his word and inform us if the man we are looking for shows up."

Porthos didn't fail to catch the tense on the word Aramis used. "When, the man shows up," he fiercely corrected.

"Of course, I meant when. Just this blasted weather dampening my spirits." Aramis clapped a hand on Porthos' soggy shoulder. "Let's go inside, shed these miserable cloaks, get a nice warm bowl of Serge's stew, sit by the fire and inform d'Artagnan of our new plan."

Porthos passed thru the door of the common room and immediately their young protégé's head shot up with a hopefully expression, which Aramis shot down with a small negative shake of his head.

"I'm not looking forward to you explaining your plan to him." Porthos jerked his head towards the ex-farm boy as they walked over to collect bowls of stew.

"My plan? How did it become my plan? Actually, you brought it up first," Aramis pointed out as he grabbed a spoon.

Porthos handed him a bowl and collected two more, one for him and one for d'Artagnan. "You're the sweet talker. You're gonna need it to convince the whelp."

Grabbing a basket of bread, Aramis trailed after Porthos, winding around the other tables and chairs in the room. "My sweet talk is for the ladies."

"Imagine him in a skirt if that helps." Arriving at the table, Porthos plunked down the bowls before taking the seat across from D'Artagnan.

The Captain spotted his three musketeers and was happy to see them eating in a warm, dry place, even if two of them were leaving puddles on the brick floor. Grabbing mugs and a bottle of wine, he made his way to the table and sat in the fourth, empty chair. A small wave of sadness hit him as he realized this should have been Athos, sitting in this chair.

As he poured the libations, he noted Aramis studying d'Artagnan between bites of stew, and Porthos studying Aramis. Something was up and he knew his men well enough to determine that Porthos expected Aramis to break some sort of news to d'Artagnan. Deciding to help get the ball rolling, Treville took a sip of his wine before setting his mug on the table and folding his arms across his leather-clad chest. "So Aramis, what is it you need to tell us?"

Aramis frowned as the Captain hit the nail squarely on the head. "You know us too well, Sir," which elicited a lazy smile from the Captain. Aramis drew in a large breath. "I think it is time we stop watching the shop."

D'Artagnan's spoon clattered to the scarred table top. "No! Never!"

The Captain reached out a commanding hand and laid it on the youngest musketeer's arm. "Hear him out, son."

Aramis spent the next fifteen minutes explaining his rationale and countering d'Artagnan's arguments. The Captain was pleased that Aramis had come to this conclusion on his own, because Treville knew he couldn't let them carry on their watch forever. It was nice that he hadn't had to force the issue and he threw his support fully behind Aramis.

Eventually, when his emotions drained, d'Artagnan, though he didn't like it, agreed to the proposal. Realistically, they couldn't watch the candle maker's shop day in and day out. They would have to trust, as Aramis pointed out, the shopkeeper and God to inform them when the bald man showed up. And it wasn't that the boy didn't exactly trust the shopkeeper or God, but he internally decided on his free time, he would still swing by the shop. Unbeknown to him, his fellow musketeers had made the same internal promise.


	17. Chapter 17

CHAPTER 17

Waking in a panic, Athos frantically scanned his cell not sure how he got from the grove in the woods back to here. Walked, the rational part of his mind supposed, but he didn't recall a single step of the journey. Once in his cell, he must have immediately fallen asleep or more likely passed out on his pallet, where he now found himself laying. Sweat was dripping from his brow and as he raised his trembling hand to wipe it off, he realized his forehead was very hot. He had learned enough from Aramis to know that wasn't a good sign and that one of his wounds must have an infection settling into it. He didn't know which one of his many cuts and scrapes to blame and it really didn't matter since he had no way to treat it. With a groan, he maneuvered onto his left side, letting the wave of darkness that was lapping at the edges of his mind rise, and overwhelm him, dragging him back into unconsciousness.

His fever-induced nightmares tore at his mind and soul for the next two days, and unlike in the past when his brothers had been there to help and comfort him, he was totally alone. Other than a bucket of water being placed near his pallet, no one lifted a finger to help. Athos' guilt-ridden mind understood completely; he wasn't deserving of kindness or mercy. The deaths of too many innocents rested on his soul; from his wife and all those she murdered to the latest boy he had, by proxy, killed.

At the moment, the only thing that kept him fighting to live, and not succumb to the fever, was his unfinished business with the Lemione; he still had to bring the man to justice. With that burning desire driving him, Athos forced his body, whenever he was able, to push back the darkness of the fever, to crawl to the water bucket and drink. The fever was wringing all the water from his body and unless he replenished it he would go to hell, his mission on earth incomplete.

On the morning of the third day when he woke, he discovered his fever had finally broken. He was as weak as a new born kitten, but he dragged his weary body to the water bucket once again and drank deeply of the stale water. A few minutes later, he vomited all his hard won replenishment on the floor.

Aramis' advice on treating a severely dehydrated victim, for which Athos was sure he was a perfect match, was to give them sips of water, gradually increasing the amount each time. Otherwise, well Athos had just proven what the otherwise was. For the next few hours he prudently partook of the water as he rested in his cell.

Night came and went and Athos had moments of restful sleep interspersed with horrendous nightmares. Finally, he gave up the hopes of any more peaceful sleep, and propped his slowly recovering body up against the wall to await the light of day.

When he heard the sounds of his fellow inmates rising and heading to the first meal of the new day, he gingerly rolled onto his knees. With deliberate care, he crawled across his cell to the iron bars on the far end and used them to haul his weaken body upright. He took a few wobbly steps, not daring to let go of the bars because he knew in his enfeebled state, he'd end up face first on the floor.

Using the bars as a life line, he made his way out of his door and down the corridor that lead to the common room. When he came to an open cell door, he was forced to let goof the bars and negotiate the four foot gap. The first time he fell to his knees, creeping to where the cell's bars resumed, then pulled his frame upright once again. Eventually, he was able to stay on his feet and by the time he reached the common area, he was able to walk without support to an empty table where he plopped heavily upon the wooden bench.

No one paid him any more notice then they had in the past for which Athos was grateful; he wasn't up to making conversation let alone fending off any aggression. Reaching into the bread basket in front of him, he took a small piece, brought it to his cracked lips, and carefully bit off a chunk. Chewing in a measured manner, he swallowed gingerly and paused to reflect if the food was going to stay down. It seemed to be staying in place, so he took a cautious sip of water, before nibbling on the bread again. He wasn't in the least bit hungry, but he was attempting to listen to the voice of Aramis, playing in his head, providing instructions on how to recover. The voice in his head was a comfort as it spoke of how a fever robbed the body of all its strength, which needed to be slowly rebuilt through proper food and rest.

However, after a bit chewing was too much of an effort and he dropped his head, which felt like it weighed as much as a horse, onto his forearms on the table's roughhewn surface. He must have drifted off because when he became aware again and lifted his head, he was alone in the room. Procuring a tumbler of water, a baguette, and an apple, he painfully climbed to his feet and gradually made his way back to his cell. He managed carefully to place his foodstuff on the ground before collapsing in an exhausted help onto his pallet.

The next two days followed the same pattern of shuffling out to eat and then retiring to his cell to regain his strength. On the morn of the third day of his recovery, he found he was able to walk with a measured level of confidence into the common area. When Jehan entered the room, he sized-up Athos, then motioned for him to join the group as they headed out to the training area.

After being cooped up in the semi-darkness of the prison, the sunshine was cruelly bright and Athos squinted and shielded his eyes with his hand, once again wishing for his hat. Slowly, his sight adjusted as he sluggishly made his way to the weapon's table to pick up a sword. As his fingers wrapped around the hilt, a feeling of rightness overcame him. This was who he was. It gave him a much needed energy boost as he took his place in line.

A few hours later he lay, once again, on the baked earth having been 'killed' by his opponent. His sparring partners were not taking his recent illness into consideration as they unmercifully attacked him, driving him to his knees more times than he could count. Had he not been recovering from the fever, he could have easily wiped the ground with these insolent pups. But he didn't have the strength to do it yet, so he suffered in silence as he was repetitively trounced.

That night back in his cell after dinner, he fell into a deep and for once restful sleep. When he rose the next morning, he walked into the common room looking more alive than dead for once, a fact that was noted by Jehan as he led them to the training field. The trainer still had suspicions that this man was not what he appeared to be, and he wanted to try to push Athos into revealing his true abilities.

As they picked up their weapons and headed towards their usual groups, Jehan stepped in front of Athos. "You will work with the top group today."

Athos' eyes narrowed with wariness, but he did as instructed, making his way over to his newly assigned group. The other three men eyed him with disdain as he came to a stop by them. Jehan joined the group pairing them off to scrimmage, the stood to one side and observed.

Athos' sparring partner was a few notches above his last one and he had to work harder to avoid getting hit, while not appearing too good. As Jehan expected, Athos' skills increased just enough to get by without injury. To keep testing his hypothesis, Jehan kept rotating partners until Athos had fought with every man in the top-ranked group.

As suspected, Athos' skills waxed and waned, varying with the degree of talent his opponents displayed. By the time dinner was to be served and they all headed back to the common room, Jehan was positive that Athos was the best swordsman in the lot by far, and was, for whatever reasons, hiding that fact. Now he had to come up with a plan to draw the man into revealing his skills. If Athos was as good as Jehan suspected, the Marquis would be very pleased to have a strong fighter in his stable. That would go a long way in ensuring that Jehan was not given a number and made part of the lottery of death.

The next morning the Marquis spoon paused, in disbelief, on the way to placing a piece of egg in his mouth. "You want me to place the man who wouldn't fight in another duel against Marquios' best fighter?" The egg finished its journey to his lips and when he was done chewing and swallowing, he shook his head. "Are you trying to drive me to rack and ruin, Jehan?"

Though nervous, the trainer remained outwardly calm and collected. "Given the right motivation, he will fight, your Lord, and win. You'll collect ten times what you lost last time. No one will bet on him again, not after last time. You'll clean up."

The Marquis fingered his mustache thoughtfully, smoothing the errant edges. "And you are sure you know how to motivate this man?"

"Yes. I'm sure," he answered confidently. Jehan had a gut feeling, a strong hunch, as to what it would take to get Athos to fight. A part of him felt he had to take this gamble to try to get back into the good graces of his boss. There was too much to lose, namely his life, it the Marquis decided to issue him a number. On the personal level, he disliked this new recruit for reasons he couldn't quite articulate and forcing the man back into the ring and compelling him to fight was becoming an obsession.

Rising from his breakfast table, the Marquis moved to Jehan's side and casually draped his arm over the man's shoulder. "Well my old friend, you'd better be right for if I lose again your days will be numbered."

Jehan's adam's apple bobbed up and down nervously at the thinly veiled threat.

"Tomorrow he goes back in." After slapping Jehan lightly on the shoulder, the Marquis removed his arm and strolled away.

The trainer let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. If Jehan was wrong about how to get Athos to engage in a fight, he'd just signed his own death warrant.


	18. Chapter 18

CHAPTER 18

That night, after the evening meal was completed, Jehan entered the common room searching out Athos and found the man already retired to his cell. Still recovering from his fever, Athos found he was quick to fatigue and had retired to his pallet in the hopes of getting some additional rest.

A stray noise caught his attention, causing him to force open his weary eyes. Surprise registered across his face when he saw Jehan's form darkening his doorway, and swiftly, he rose to his feet as the trainer entered his cell. Warily, Athos eyed the man, trying to fathom what was occurring.

Without preamble, Jehan stated, "Tomorrow you fight."

Leaning his shoulder against the stone wall, Athos put forth the appearance of being totally indifferent, even though he was really on high alert. "Haven't we had this discussion before? I don't fight for other people's entertainment."

Jehan moved across the cell until he was standing in front of Athos, a mere few inches from his face. Pitching his voice low, so only Athos could hear, he growled, "You will fight tomorrow and you will win."

Athos didn't say anything, merely slightly arching his eyebrow.

"Because, if you don't," the trainer continued, "you will have the blood of two more innocents on your brow."

A trickle of sweat formed between Athos' shoulder blades, which ran in a sinister fashion down his spine.

"You remember Jacque don't you? Oh wait, you probably never knew his name. He was the servant that brought you food and showed you kindness."

Athos couldn't keep the horror from registering in his eyes as he began to understand.

Jehan could see the man in front of him was struggling to stay in control, so he played the card that he knew would be trump. "The last time you saw Jacque, he was shackled, to a post. The boy that was killed because you refused to fight. The poor, innocent child who was nice to you and who's kindness you repaid by shooting him in the head."

Unable to contain his composure, Athos violently pushed off the wall to crowd Jehan. "I didn't kill him," his furious voice countered, his body vibrating with anger.

Raising his arms, Jehan shoved Athos away from him. "You did. His death is a direct result of your actions. How many others are you willing to let die for the sake of your honor?"

Jehan didn't realize, but he had accidentally stumbled upon Athos' Achilles heel with the use of the word 'honor'. The trainer watched with fascination as the man in front of him, gasped, withdrew, and physically backed away. Sensing he was about to achieve his goal and thereby save his own life, he pushed on relentlessly. "Would you like a preview of who will put to death tomorrow if you refuse to fight? I'll give you a hint. Not one, but two female servants!"

Athos couldn't stop his green eyes from growing alarmed as his breathing involuntarily increased.

"The girls, who rode with you, in the wagon? You remember them don't you? Two young innocent girls. Well, those are the people you will add to your list of murders, if you lose tomorrow's dual. Though perhaps, makes no difference to you, a couple of stupid servant girls."

Jehan watched dispassionately as the man in front of him crumbled against the wall before sliding down it into a miserable heap on the floor and he pressed his point. "Can you really stand idly by and watch two innocent people put to death? Can you live with that on your conscious?"

Athos bowed his head to rest it on his knees, his whole frame trembling as Jehan smiled cruelly down at him. "I hope you have made peace with the devil because God won't let scum like you through his gates."

Turning away, Jehan left the cell, confident he had broken the man. In the arena tomorrow, there would be a battle, Those two girls, standing on the side of the ring, where they could be easily seen, would force this man to engage, and fight to win.

Athos remained on the floor in a miserable, huddled mass, unable to break his mind free from the swirling images of death that assaulted him. Thomas' bloody chest overlaid on Milady's laughing face. Cruel words from his father, berating him for not doing his duty, beating him when caught in a childish lie. His mother, who had tried to love her children equally, but could never disguise the fact that her youngest held a special place in her heart that Athos could never hope to reach.

His ever-present guilty conscious, added to the insidious fever still lurking in his body, made for a torturous night that would have made an inquisitor proud. By dawn's first light, Athos was a broken man in body and spirit. However, as a man of undeniably strong honor, he could not let another blameless person die because of him. He would rise and fight, no matter what the personal cost.

Cracking open his eyes, he let the bleary green orbs sweep his cell, noting that the water bucket from a few days ago was still sitting, abandoned in the corner. Painfully, he rolled onto his hands and knees, and then pushed himself to his feet, before making his way to the tepid pail of water.

It crossed his mind that Aramis would have scolded him, if he saw the state of the water he was about to stick his head into, but he was going to do it anyway. It was the only game in town and while his head wasn't throbbing as it did after a night of imbibing, it felt hot and muzzy, unable to track to a subject without intense concentration. On his knees, hands braced on the slides of the bucket, he lowered his head and neck into the brackish water.

Even though it wasn't cold, like the ice covered hang-over remedy he used in the winter months, it felt wonderful against his slightly feverish skin. By the time his oxygen was gone and he was forced to raise he head and gulp for air, he felt slightly better. As he sat there on his haunches, water rivulets running down his head and neck leaving trails down his lower body, he thought about the duel. He had to win, which meant he had to prepare. Flexibility, energy, weaponry and of course attitude, were the keys to accomplishing this mission.

Shaking his head gently like a wet dog, his dark waves sent water drops in all directions about his cell. He ran a none-too-clean hand through his tousled damp hair, in an attempt not so much to tame it, as get it out of his eyes. Seeing the enemy, as he attacked was always useful.

Rising to his feet, he began a series of slow and unconditionally excruciating stretches to loosen his muscles and tendons. He bit back the moan that wanted to escape his lips as he moved in familiar, but not recently used patterns. It wasn't pretty at first, but he grew more graceful as he loosened up.

When he felt a bit more limber, he purposely headed down to the common room to work on his energy levels. Athos knew that the moment he was faced with an opponent and a sword, his adrenaline levels would kick in and provide the energy surge required. However, he also knew afterwards, and especially given the low grade fever wracking his body, he would crash and burn. Surrounded by his fellow Musketeer's, or in a safe place, it was a chance he could take; here, in the mists of the enemy, he hadn't that luxury.

Even though the smells emanating from the food on the wooden tables was making his stomach sour, he forced his hand to rip off a chunk of bread and slowly chew it as he sat in his usual corner, alone. In the end, he knew he didn't eat enough. He could hear the voices of Aramis scolding him to eat more and Porthos telling him he wasn't going to carry him when he passed out. However, it was the best he could do, so he ignored the voices and their advice, as he would have if they had been sitting at the table alongside him.

A bit of moisture dampened his eyes as he thought of his brothers and how much he missed them. He had been a lone wolf when he entered the regiment and somehow Aramis and Porthos had made the three of them into an inseparable pack, and more recently added the fourth in d'Artagnan. Using the back of his hand, he dashed away the wetness, blaming it on water dripping from his head. But deep down he knew he was lying and the tears were real; he gravely missed his brothers.

Having knocked out two tasks, on his mental, list to win the upcoming duel, he waited at the table for Jehan to show up to move onto the next goal, weaponry. Sitting in the common area, he let the conversations of his fellow man wash over him, absorbing, and storing away pieces of information that might be useful.

A revelation he had in the wee hours of the night, was that he was done wallowing in the self-pity that had caused this situation. Yes, Thomas was dead. Yes, he played a large part in the demise of his younger brother. Yes, he should and would rot in hell for the acts he committed. But not today.

Today, he wasn't the pathetic drunken older brother, floundering in a world of his own making. Today, he was a King's Musketeer, duty bound to uphold the law. His mission was to bring to an end to this sick and twisted game that was occurring on this estate and to bring the Marquis Lemione to justice. The exact form that justice would take was still not firm in his mind.

He knew the right thing to do was to bring the man, as a prisoner, to court and let the King decide his fate. However, after seeing what the Marquis did to the boy in the grove, Athos wanted to perform his own justice using his sword. But, that didn't need to be decided yet. One step at a time. Step one, ensure that two people did not needlessly die today for a sick man's pleasure.

The anniversary of Thomas' death, the event that had started this whole adventure, was pushed back in its little box and shoved to the dark recesses of Athos' mind. While he knew it would eventually work its way back into the light of day, that day would not be today. Today was about the living, not the dead.

When Jehan entered into the common room, his eyes immediately noted that Athos was out of his cell and sitting at a table. A small, self-satisfied smile tugged at the trainer's lips as he made his way across the room. He could see it, a definite change in the countenance of the man. There was a spark in the man's eyes and he was willing to bet that there was now a fire in his soul that had been missing. Jehan was very confident of two things now. One, the man sitting in front of him would fight today and win. And two, in achieving the first point, he may have created a very dangerous adversary. The man was physically not one hundred percent, that was obvious, but somehow Jehan was willing to bet the man would be able mentally to overcome that detail. Like a horse that would run until it dropped, this man would fight until the bitter end, making him a very dangerous adversary.

Jehan came to a halt in front of the table where Athos resided. "Ready?"

Wordless, Athos stood. Cool green eyes, in a face that was a mask of neutrality haughtily met the question and answered with the slightest tilt of the head. A small shiver ran down Jehan's spine at the transformation standing in front of him. Gone was the beaten, downtrodden, sod that had been moping around for the past month. In his place was a confident, self-assured fighter.

Not one to be easily rattled, since he was an ex-solider and had faced death many times, Jehan matched attitude to attitude and stared down the man standing on the other side of the wooden table. "Follow me," he commanded turning his back and fully expecting him to comply. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips when he heard the man doing as he was told; Jehan still had the upper hand in this relationship, though he knew he was going to have actively work to maintain it .

Athos and Jehan made their way to the weapons room, where the former spent a considerable amount of time examining the choices, hefting and twirling them before finally settling on a rapier, main gauche, and a whetstone. Jehan estimation of the man gained another notch, as he stood by the wall and watched. This man knew exactly what he wanted and found the best the room had to offer.

"I'll take those," Jehan stated as he moved over to where Athos stood holding the weaponry. Athos cocked his head a little to the right as if contemplating whether he would abide by the request. Jehan's jaw involuntarily clenched then relaxed when, after a brief pause, the man mildly handed over the two items into his safe keeping. The whetstone remained in Athos' hand, and he unconsciously ran a thumb down its rough surface, which Jehan found a bit disconcerting.

With a jerk of his head, indicating that Athos should follow, Jehan made his way to the waiting area outside the dueling arena. Once again, he laid the weapons on the wooden table before he left, locking Athos in the room to wait. This time, Athos used the period before the duel to prepare. Taking the whetstone, he honed the rapier and main gauche as much as possible. He tried his best, but the inferior metal didn't accept an edge as well as his normal sword. He also added edges to both the sides of the rapier, giving him the capability to use it to slash his opponent as well as stab.

After his weapons were prepared, he spent time standing at the iron-barred gate separating him from the dueling arena, studying the layout. His observation focused not so much on any tactical advantages to be gained on the floor, because there really were none. Instead, he focused on the viewing stands and the outside entrance to the arena. These were the two important locales for his long term plans to escape and bring down the Marquis.

After he was through examining the arena, he wandered back to the table, poured himself a glass of water and then sat in the chair. He ignored the food sitting there in favor of folding his forearms on the table's top and laying his head down for a light nap. The fever lurking in his body was nibbling at his energy reserves and the quick respite was welcome. He stayed in that position until his ears detected the unlocking of the gate, which caused him lethargically to raise his head.

Jehan felt the knot in his stomach tighten when he entered the ante-room and saw the man slouched over the table in front of him. Where was the warrior he had laden earlier? Had he made a terrible mistake?

Athos shook the sleep from his weary mind, forcing his brain and body to get back into the fight mode. With more energy than he felt, he pushed upright, straightened his linen shirt, which had crept off one shoulder and let confidence and a touch of arrogance seep into his posture as he coolly stared at Jehan.

"Time to go," Jehan simply announced keeping his elation under wraps at the transformation he had just witnessed. Perhaps this was going to work out.

Athos saw the flicker of concern in Jehan's eyes morph into relief. Apparently, Jehan had as much riding on the successful outcome of this duel as the poor people whose numbers were drawn to be killed.

Collecting his rapier and main gauche from the table, he went over to the gate that led to the main arena where Jehan was releasing the lock. Athos was a bit surprised to see both the audience and his opponent had arrived while he was napping on the table. Momentarily, he was concerned about his mental and physical state that all of this occurred without him being aware. It told him his strategy for this duel had to be to bring his opponent to a quick defeat. As he followed Jehan through the now open gate to the middle of the ring, he had serious doubts he had the stamina for a prolonged fight.

Like last time, Jehan led him to stand a few paces from his foe before walking away and standing by the entranceway with the rest of the guards. Athos sized up his dueling partner, quickly deciding defeating him was not going to be a real challenge. While he waited for the signal to begin, he let his eyes sweep the arena to find where the 'hostages' were located. It didn't take long to find the two girls seated in some lower-level seats, discretely flanked by two guards. The young girls were talking animatedly between themselves, seeming unaware that their life hung in the balance of his sword.

Shifting his gaze to where the Marquis resided, he saw the man was frowning, probably wondering if his prize stallion was going to perform this time or act like a gelding. The last place Athos' examined was the one and only entrance or exit from the arena. If he was going to stage a future escape, it was probably through that door that his best chances lay.

The sound of the horn going off immediately brought his focus back on his foe, who had raised his sword and was swiftly closing the gap between them. Athos raised his sword in reply, though he left the main gauche hanging vertically at his side. He wished he had a belt on which to holster the smaller sword so he had his second hand free. Assuming he survived this encounter, of which he really had no concerns, and that he would have to fight again, of which he had no doubts, he would see about procuring a belt.

The first swipe at him by his opponent was easily parried. Athos took a step back out of range, and as he did that, he heard a groan from the audience. A glance towards where the Marquis sat showed the man's frown was deepening; apparently, whatever his fellow Comte just said to him wasn't pleasing. Athos, given what occurred last time he was in this ring, had a pretty good idea what the conversation was about.

Athos stealthily moved his opponent around the ring until he could observe Jehan. He too seemed incredibly displeased with Athos' opening salvo and the trainer made a very noticeable eye shift to where the two girls sat. Athos had no problem interpreting what the man was telling him; fight or they die.

Caught unawares by his betraying body, Athos staggered side-ways, as the edges of darkness tried to seize his mind. His foe took advantage of Athos' equilibrium issue and launched an attack at him. Even in his compromised state, the musketeer easily thwarted the clumsy lunges. However, it did serve to remind Athos of his strategy to end this fight quickly, before he collapsed. Now was the time to do that.

Suddenly and much to the surprise of the audience and his opponent, Athos went on the offensive and in less than a minute, his opponent was on the ground with a sword tip pressed against his chest. His downed foe made an attempt to rise, causing Athos to press a bit harder with the tip of his rapier, causing a drop of blood to well forth. "I suggest, you remain calm and still," he instructed in a smooth voice. "Don't make me hurt you."

The wisdom of those words seemed to dawn on the man who went as still and quiet as a corpse. Athos flicked his eyes to where the Marquis sat and found the man grinning and leaning forward in anticipation. While Athos had no intentions of killing the man under the tip of his sword, he knew he had to provide some show so he did what he had done to the Duke of Savoy. With a twitch of his wrist, he left a slice in the man's shirt and the skin underneath. As soon as redness appeared on the shirt, Athos stepped back, letting his sword drop harmless to his side.

The audience broke into a round of cheers, which greatly unsettled Athos; this wasn't a sporting match. He was unable to stop the look of disgust that crept across his face. Jehan, seeing it, laughed as he walked over towards Athos. "Guess the majority of the people here don't have your dislike of dueling for fun. Come on."

Ducking his head, Athos followed Jehan back into the waiting room where he indicated that the man should lay the weapons upon the table. Once again, Athos knew this wasn't the right time or place to stage an attack so he did as requested, laying the swords on the table.

The sweat trickling down Athos' face didn't go unnoticed by the trainer. "You're not looking too good."

"I'm fine," Athos returned even though he dropped his hands heavily on the table to brace his body.

The fact that this might be some sort of act crossed Jehan's mind but he quickly disregard the thought as the man's arms shook and his complexion grew increasingly paler. "Back to the barracks," Jehan commanded.

Athos marshaled his rapidly dwindling reserves to trail after Jehan through the training arena and back to his cell where he collapsed on his pallet. The lightheadedness he had been holding at bay finally overcame him, and he drifted off into a comatose state. He was aware of what was going on around him but was too tired to care, so he lay there, unmoving.

Corbett, who didn't usually come to this area, walked down the corridor to where Jehan stood outside Athos' cell. "Marquis Lemione sends his congratulations on a most advantageous win today. He looks forward to many more." The bald man with the limp stared down at the sorry looking bundle on the pallet. "He doesn't look good. Was he injured?"

Corbett, Jehan knew, was a favorite of the Marquis and had his ear. He didn't want this man bringing a negative report back to the Marquis. "Nah. Touch of heat stroke is all. It was hot out there today."

Corbett's face indicated he wasn't really buying the lie being spoon fed to him, but then again what occurred here wasn't really of any interest to him, so he let it pass. "I'll be making a trip to Paris in a few days. The Lord asked if there was anything specific you required."

Jehan had did have a few things he needed, so he lead the taller man back towards the common area. As he passed by the servant, who was getting ready to set out a meal, he ordered him to place clean water and some rags in Athos' cell, along with some food in case the man wasn't up to making it to dinner. Jehan was impressed by what he had seen today and felt that he finally had someone of talent. He had a feeling, if he could keep this man motivated, he could win many more battles for the Marquis, which in turn would lead to greater rewards. That is, of course, if the man stayed alive.

Athos heard the voices of Jehan and Corbett receding down the hallway. A small sigh escaped his cracked lips. As his fever wracked brain finally processed that he was alone again in his cell, he finally allowed his body the luxury of completely passing out.


	19. Chapter 19

CHAPTER 19

A shrill voice rose through the mid-afternoon haze that engulfed the Garrison. "Let me through!"

The guards at the gate appeared disinclined to allow the street urchin passage through the gothic archway.

The skin and bones boy tried again to scoot past the guards only to be grabbed by the back of his filthy tunic and yanked backwards towards the street. "I have news! For Aramis!" he cried out as he tumbled to the ground.

The three musketeers happened to be coming out of the stables, when Aramis suddenly looked up. "Did I just hear my name?" he asked his companions.

It was the farrier, working in the courtyard on a mare's hind foot who answered. "Yeah, some street brat over by the gate is bellowing for you like a stuck pig."

Aramis placed his beloved grey hat on his unruly hair, carefully setting it at a jaunty angle. "Well then. Perhaps I should go see what this is all about."

With ground eating strides, they made their way over to the stone archway where the guards were restraining what appeared to be a wiggling lump of rags. "Let me go, or Porthos is gonna make you very sorry when he hears what you have done to me."

"Hey. It appears he knows my name too!" Porthos noted with a toothy grin.

As the men drew closer, the bundle of rags broke free of the guard's grasp and ran straight into d'Artagnan's legs. Only an expedient, steadying hand on his shoulder from Porthos, kept him from crashing to the ground again.

"Hey now, what's this about?" d'Artagnan asked as he glanced downward.

The boy raised his head and at last, the three men could see who was addressing them. "Nicholas!" d'Artagnan exclaimed as he recognized the street urchin that had told them about the tall, bald man with a limp, who had abducted Athos. "What are you doing here?"

The child stood up straighter and squared his shoulders. "I have news. From the candle maker."

"How is it that you know the candle maker?" Aramis asked, curious.

The boy pointed a grubby finger at Porthos, who Aramis swore was blushing under his dark skin. "He got me a job there."

All eyes turned on Porthos, who cleared his throat and appeared to be a bit embarrassed. "When Captain Treville pointed out we couldn't watch the shop all day, I knew he was right. But that didn't mean someone else couldn't watch for us. Nicholas seemed a logical choice. He knew who to look for and an honest job would keep him off the streets."

Aramis reached over and clapped Porthos on the shoulder. "A brilliant move on you part, my friend."

"And I saw him!" the momentarily forgotten boy broke in. "The man that took your friend. He came into the shop to buy candles, green cart and all!"

The Musketeers grew animated. "Is he there now?" the youngest of the three asked.

"No, he left." The faces on the musketeer were crestfallen. "But he'll be back. Tomorrow. To get his candles," the child excitedly explained.

Porthos was confused. "But I thought he came today to get his candles."

"He did. But the master told him he'd have to come back tomorrow if he wanted that many at once. Told him it would take me time to carefully box them up." The boy's chest puffed out and the men could see he was proud. "It's my job to pack the candles."

"And I am sure you do a wonderful job," Aramis praised the boy. "So if we wait at the shop tomorrow..."

"You'll see him!" the boy completed Aramis' sentence.

After giving the boy a few coins for his trouble and sending him back to the shop, the three men walked over to their favorite outside table. Aramis and Porthos settled on the benches while d'Artagnan perched on the edge of the table top, unconsciously imitating the posture Athos usually adopted.

It was Aramis' personal opinion that Athos' habit of sitting on the table top or at the head of the table was aligned with his need to be a little excluded from the main group. In group settings, he was the one leaning against something, and unless in strict formation, a few steps to the side of his brothers. Even when riding, he tended to be slightly to one side, blaming it on his horse's temperament even though they all knew Roger was an easy-going stallion. It was his master that was not.

Aramis also had one other theory on why Athos often perched on things, for added height. His protégé was two inches taller than he and Porthos even more so. Aramis knew he and Athos were technically the same height, but something about Aramis, maybe the way he stood or perhaps his grey hat, gave the illusion he was taller. Whatever the reason, it amused Aramis to see d'Artagnan unconsciously imitating his mentor.

Before they could start planning how to precede, Captain Treville's door opened and he stepped out onto the porch, running a hand over his weary face; the paperwork he was required to do was never-ending. As was his habit, he peered about his Garrison, noting the three men gathered around the table below. Expecting to see the slightly dejected stance they all seemed to have developed since Athos' disappearance, he was surprised when he saw something else in their posture; hope.

Like all good soldiers who constantly are aware of their surroundings, he wasn't surprised when Porthos looked upwards, spotting him. "Captain, news. Of Athos."

Surprised registered on the older man's face as he quickly made his way down the stairs to their level. "What? How?" he impatiently demanded.

Aramis, the de facto speaker for the group in Athos absence, rapidly brought their Captain up-to-date. "Now, we just need to decide how to best proceed," Aramis concluded.

"It's simple. We go to the shop and beat a confession out of the bald man." Porthos cracked his knuckles to emphasize his statement.

In a pleasant, rational, manner, Aramis pointed out the tiny flaw in Porthos' direct approach. "And what if he doesn't talk?"

An evil grin spread across the other man's face. "I can be very persuasive."

"Aramis is right," Treville cut in. "The risk of him refusing to talk is too great, especially if he did abduct Athos for nefarious reasons."

d'Artagnan, also eager and chafing at the bit for action, not conversation, blurted out, "So what are we supposed to do? Let him leave?"

The Captain's blue eyes captured the boy's excited brown ones and held them steady. "Exactly right. You let him conclude his business, with the chandler, then leave."

As d'Artagnan was about to open his mouth and protest, Aramis quickly stood and spoke, "Then we follow him and he leads us to Athos."

"We could do that," Porthos grumbled. "But I'd still like to demonstrate my displeasure."

Aramis reached over and patted Porthos' forearm. "As would I, my friend. Have patience and I am sure you will get the chance." At this, Porthos perked up a bit before nodding his head in agreement.

Turning to their boss, Aramis politely inquired, "So do we have your leave, Captain?"

Everyone at the table knew it was simply a courtesy question out of respect for their Captain; for even if he told them no, they would go anyway. This was their brother they were talking about and they would go to hell and back to retrieve him.

Three sets of expectant brown eyes stared at him, waiting for a reply. "Take supplies for at least two weeks. If this man rarely comes to Paris, it may mean he is from far off. Also, take medical supplies." The Captain didn't really finish the sentence, knowing everyone at the table knew his rationale. "Use your heads and be safe. Athos won't thank any of you for throwing your lives away to rescue him."

Aramis held a hand over his heart. "We will be the model of discretion."

Treville, who knew too well what these men were like, was not comforted by Aramis' statement. He wasn't even sure the word cautious was in their vocabulary. Even Athos, the most level-headed of the bunch, had an idea of cautious that leaned a lot closer to reckless then Treville would prefer. Their fearlessness made them what they were, and made them successful in their endeavors. However, it was a two edged sword that he feared one day would result in their demise.

"Go. Get ready. Get a goodnight sleep." There was nothing more to say other than one last thing. "Bring him home."

Aramis noticed the Captain didn't say safely and he hoped that was a simple oversight and not an omen.


	20. Chapter 20

CHAPTER 20

For the next two days and nights, Athos fought his mystery fever again; though this time, he had help from his fellow inmates, who ensured he had clean water and food within reach. In his more lucid moments, Athos missed the caring administrations of his fellow Musketeers, and though he would never admit it to them, he did vow to be more grateful the next time they took care of him when he was ailing. That is, if there ever was a next time.

Two more days hence had him regaining strength and joining his fellow inmates in the training area again. Athos found he still tired easily, which led to him having to take frequent rest breaks. Not one to sit idly by, he found he was critiquing his fellow fighter's forms and offering suggestions for improvement. Jehan watched this new development with interest, noting it showed there were many more layers to this man who called himself Armand. However, Jehan had many reasons to doubt that this was in fact the man's real name, not least the fact he often failed to answer to it.

After watching Athos instruct the others for two days, Jehan was sure, whatever this man did before Corbett abducted him, part of his job included training others. He was a natural; he had the instincts of when to praise, when to scold and he was drawing the best out of every man in the group. Jehan was sure the Marquis would be pleased with the results and of course, he would tell his employer that it had been his initiative.

All the men were responding positively to Athos' new role as their informal teacher, except for Charles and Henri, who had been the group's best swordsmen and de facto leaders. It was abundantly clear that the two didn't like the man, who had formerly been the runt of the litter, suddenly acting like the leader of the pack.

Athos wasn't stupid and he knew his actions were rubbing wrong on Charles and Henri. However, he had made a vow that no more innocent servants should die while he was plotting to bring this insidious game to a halt. Since he wouldn't be fighting every duel, it only seemed prudent to help the rest of the group improve their skill levels so they might win their fights. So each day he worked with everyone but Henri and Charles, and was pleased to see improvement in their sword work.

As for Henri and Charles, he avoided them as much as possible and when he couldn't he was deferential to them, giving them no further cause to dislike him. Even though he was helping the group, he remained a loner, sitting in the corner observing, and he liked it that way. The few overtures of friendship that were made towards him were politely rebuffed. Friends wouldn't help and were more likely to be a liability. What he needed was a way to escape and bring the Marquis to justice. It didn't take long for the rest of the group to understand his preference to be left alone and they stopped trying to draw him out. Sitting in the common room, he watched them interact and it saddened him, not because he wasn't part of the group, but because it reminded him how much he missed Aramis, Porthos, and d'Artagnan.

The Marquis, like a child with a new favorite toy, kept arranging duels for Athos. At first, it was easy to set up matches and make large wagers, which paid off handsomely. For two solid weeks, Athos fought and it was starting to wear him down. His body, which never quite had a chance to recover from the fever, was taxed with greater frequency, as better caliber fighters were brought to challenge him. As much as he would have liked simply to refuse to fight, he wouldn't be the cause of any more innocent deaths, so he pushed his depleted body to respond to the challenges.

Every time he stepped into the arena, he observed and catalogued items that could be useful in an escape or slaying of the Marquis. With a bit of trial and error, he discovered that during the course of a duel, he was able to maneuver near to where the Marquis sat above the arena. While close enough for a skilled knife thrower to make a fairly accurate shot, the angle at which the knife would have to be thrown was too steep. Mostly likely, the knife not to reach its intended target.

As he weighed options, it was becoming apparent that the idea to try to kill the Marquis during one of the duels was suicidal at best. While he was willing to die if he could succeed in bringing down the Marquis too, to try, fail and die would not serve these people. So he turned his thoughts to escaping, then coming back with reinforcements to bring about the Marquis demise.

In the area of escape, there was only one route in and out of the arena, which was where Jehan and guards from the opponent's team stood during the battle. In testing those waters, Athos found he could maneuver within a few feet of the guards before they got nervous. It would be child's play to turn his weapon upon them. However, whether he could take them all out, while not sustaining a life threatening injury was uncertain. Then he'd have to escape out the gate, steal a horse and gallop to freedom; a longshot at best. At night, when he couldn't sleep, which was often, he ran various options through his mind, seeking to find the one that would have the best chance of success.

Meanwhile, the Marquis Lemione was finding it increasingly difficult to set up matches for his star fighter. The word had gotten out of Athos' prowess, and no one wanted to send fighters against him, let alone bet. In order to feed his habit, the Marquis was forced to come up with enticing offers to bring opponents to the ring. First was a series of two against one battles, which Athos managed to win easily; those odds he had faced often in his past. However, it was taking a huge toll on the already exhausted man.

Soon, even two against one wouldn't bring new opponents to the ring so the Marquis had to up the ante, if he wanted anyone to bring forth challengers. So when Athos entered the arena for his next sword fight, he found three armed men waiting to engage him.

"This is absurd! I'll not do this," Athos exclaimed as Jehan walked away toward his normal spot by the entrance way.

The trainer momentarily halted, gave a meaningful look into the stands were the three 'lottery winners' were located. "Shall I go up there then and tell them you have condemned them to die?"

Athos shoulders slumped as he followed Jehan's gaze and spotted the three people sitting in the stands. Two of them were the couple he had met on the wagon. The third he didn't know, but it didn't matter. Jehan was correct. What right did he have to condemn them to the grave?

Jehan started walking towards his post again, knowing by the body language of the swordsman that he would fight. As he took his place, standing, facing the arena, a small wave of pity washed over him because the odds that Athos would walk away from this fight unscathed or even victorious, were not good.

Jehan held no love or allegiance towards the man, and in fact, was becoming increasingly agitated by his mere presence. However, he had come to enjoy the rewards being reaped on him by the Marquis, every time Athos won so he tolerated the man. He would miss those perks when the swordsman finally met his match.

Athos stood in the center of the arena, with the hot sun beating down upon his head and shoulders. He had lost track of the passage of time since his captivity, but he thought it must be drawing near the end of summer, yet the heat was not abating. His mind strayed for a moment to his three brothers, and he wondered if they had given him up for dead yet. Logically, if the amount of time had passed that Athos suspected, they would be within their rights to have moved on with their lives. But a small part of his heart hoped they hadn't. But now wasn't the time to become distracted, not if he wanted to win this fight.

Narrowing his eyes in deference to the bright sunshine, he studied his opponents as his left hand, which was not holding anything, strayed to ensure his main gauche was still in its holder on his back. He had finally convinced Jehan to obtain a proper weapons belt. Plotting his strategy, he realized that today he would be forced to reveal another one of his skills if he had any hopes of victory.

Approaching within two swords lengths of his foes, he tried for the bluff. "I don't suppose you'd like to lay down your weapons and concede the fight before I harm you?" His face was a perfect mixture of arrogance and boredom and to add to the illusion, he drew his main gauche and proceeded to trim an errant thumb nail.

His enemies, who clearly found his suggestion to be ludicrous, answered by simply drawing their swords with evil grins on their faces. The rasp of metal rang through the air and the audience leaned forward in anticipation. All eyes were focused on the four men standing in the hot sun.

Athos inwardly sighed. He had given them a chance. An imperceptible flick of his eyes showed that the man in the stands, who started each match with a horn blow, was about to commence the action. The first note had barely left the instrument before Athos flung his main gauche at the right most man of the trio, embedding it in his upper thigh. Before the wounded man even hit the dirt, Athos drew his rapier and it flashed out to strike at the left most of his foes, lightly slicing into the man's torso.

His plan, given the desperate situation was good, but not perfect, as the middle fighter had the presence of mind to strike at the Musketeer's side, which was exposed because of Athos' long thrust. Had the man been a better fighter, the blow could have been fatal, but Athos, who was very experienced in multiple man combat, caught the glint of the blade in the cruel sunlight and was able to twist mostly from its lethal path. It sliced through his shirt and did score upon his flesh, but not so deeply as to incapacitate him.

Dancing away, Athos drew in some quick short breaths to gain mastery over the ache on his left side while he assessed his situation. One man down, one injured and one quite whole, not a bad start to a heavily stacked deck. Deciding he wanted his dagger back, Athos slowly moved in a circle, forcing his opponent to keep pace with him. He maneuvered until he was standing next to the downed man, who peered up at him in terror, fearing he was going to finish what he started.

Taking pity on the man, whose fear was clearly showing, Athos inquired, "I gather you are not ready to meet your maker yet?"

The frightened man nodded, indicating he wanted to live.

"Good then. We are in agreement on that point. Here is how we will proceed." Glancing over at the other two men, he noted they were keeping their distance, not inclined to assist their wounded brethren. How unlike his own Musketeer brothers, who would never abandon one of their downed comrades. But once again, this wasn't a time for distraction, and Athos focused his attention back on the matter at hand. "I want my weapon back. I am going to remove it from your leg."

Somehow, those words didn't comfort the man and in retrospect, perhaps he should have simply removed the dagger without warning.

"Once it is removed," Athos continued, "you shall lay there quietly for the rest of this duel, offering no interference, and you live. Are we in accord?"

Puzzlement crossed the wounded man's face and Athos sighed guessing the man had no clue what 'accord' meant. "Simply nod your head yes," he suggested and the man did. "Good," and before the echo of the word died out, Athos' boot tip was on the man's leg, steadying it, as his hand, on the pommel, withdrew the blade.

The metal blade came free of the flesh, dripping bright red blood onto the sands of the arena. Not one to put his weapons in a holster uncleansed, Athos muttered an apology, as he wiped the blade on the man's shirt to clear it of blood. Once it was firmly back in the holster on his back, Athos turned his full attention on the other two remaining foes. The odds were more in his favor now. However a prolonged fight, given the heat and the fact he was already scored, would be unwise.

Since his opening gambit worked well, Athos decided to see if these two were dumb enough to fall for it again. He switched his rapier to his non-dominant hand as he walked towards them. A few paces out, he extended his right hand as if to offer a hand-shake. "Shall we call this over then?"

Two bewildered faces stared back at him and once again, puzzlement and confusion raced across their faces.

A small flaw in his plan suddenly dawned on Athos and a course correction was required. Keeping the point of his rapier firmly pointed at the ground in what he hoped was in a non-threatening manner, he slowly transferred the blade back to his right hand. "To show you my sincerity in this manner, I will hand you my main gauche," he stated as he slowly reached for it with his now empty left hand. Noticing the wariness of his opponents, he kept his actions very slow and deliberate. Perhaps they weren't quite as stupid as he thought. He withdrew it from its casing and held it lightly, by the pommel, with three fingers, all the while keeping the blade tip facing the ground. It was as neutral a position was he could make it. He now had a weapon in each hand, equaling the number of opponents left to kill. While not truly ambidextrous, Athos did have enough talent to use his rapier with his left hand quite well.

In a flash, the fight was over, as he launched his main gauche into the torso of the man on the left, while using his sword to strike the man on his right. A soft thud told Athos the dagger had done its work leaving him to concentrate on the remaining swordsman. A few parries, lunges and Porthos' favorite trick, a swift kick to the privates, had the man lying in the dirt with the tip of Athos' rapier firmly placed against his chest over his heart.

Looking down at the man, with sweat dripping from his brow, Athos still managed to ask in a moderately polite tone, "Do you yield?"

The man quickly nodded. After a slight incline of his own head to acknowledge the response, Athos gave his sword a small flick, leaving behind a thin slice on the man's chest, as he did to the Duke of Savoy. Next, he moved over to where the man lay, who had his main gauche, embedded in him.

The mark of an expert fighter was to learn from ones mistakes, thereby living another day. And Athos had learned something today; talking didn't make it any easier. So with a swift and sure motion, his boot tip found its way on top of the man's chest, where his dagger was embedded, and with no further ado, the Musketeer's swiftly reached down and pulled it out. After the deed was done, he did offer a few words of sympathy to the bleeding man. "Sorry it wasn't in the leg like your friend, but my left-handed throwing is not as precise and needs a larger surface area."

His jaw cocked to one side as his eyes studied the man for a moment. "I do believe it is a non-fatal blow, though I would suggest you have someone take a look at it rather quickly." Since he didn't have to put his dagger immediately away, he was generous and didn't clean on the man's clothing.

As he straightened, his wounded side reacquainted itself, and once again, as he had in the past when wounded, Athos marveled at how much pain the human mind could ignore, given the right incentive, such as staying alive. However, he also knew the brain subscribed to the 'payback is a bitch' theory and he would suffer for this later.

Athos slowly started walking towards the gate, not waiting for Jehan to collect him and escort him. He was hot, tired and he knew he was lucky to have fared as well as he did today. The odds against him were going to get higher each time he stepped in the ring and one day he would lose. He had to put his nearly complete escape plan into play very soon if he ever wanted to see his brothers again.


	21. Chapter 21

CHAPTER 21

For four days, the three men surreptitiously followed the green wagon from Paris across the countryside. It was a tedious task, but not difficult, given the lackadaisical pace at which the team pulled the wagon. D'Artagnan wished he could ride up to the tall, bald man driving the wagon and ask him to hurry it up a bit. Aramis found he was reminding the boy that patience was a virtue, even though he too was being sorely tested by this slow journey.

The first night, hiding in the trees, they watched with great interest as the man, whose name was Corbett they had learned, unloaded some cargo from the wagon, namely the human kind. When the wagon stopped for the night, Corbett opened the flap in the back and two young women, and one middle aged man stepped out onto the forest floor. They were neither chained nor bound in any fashion, appeared to be in good spirits and in no way at odds with the man driving the wagon.

The Musketeers didn't dare make a fire, so they ate hard rations as they puzzled over what they had seen to date.

"They don't seem distressed do they?" Porthos said around a mouth full of dry biscuit. Of the three, he was the least fussy about what he ate just so long as he ate. Given how and where he had grown up, this was not surprising.

Aramis, on the other-hand was definitely the pickiest of them all and to boot had a sweet tooth. Porthos said his sweet tooth came from hanging around the ladies too much who plied him with dainties to get him to sleep with them. Aramis neither confirmed nor denied these allegations, even though he did seem to know the location of every confectionary in Paris, just as Athos knew every wine merchant and tavern.

Athos thoughts on food were blasé at best and dismissive at most. If food was available, he was likely to eat, though a reminder or sometimes a threat was necessary, especially if the man was determined to get drunk. Aramis, more than once, had reminded the man to eat first, drink second and had kept the wine bottle out of reach until obeyed. Given his background, Athos wasn't a stranger to well prepared food, but cared more about a good bottle of wine any day. However, even in his beverage choices, Athos wasn't a true snob; if he couldn't get the good stuff, he was content to get soused on whatever was available, as long as it sunk him into oblivion.

D'Artagnan, with his farmer's roots, enjoyed and was quite the consumer of fresh fruit and vegetables. He actually carried the traits of all his brothers when it came to food. He was always hungry like Porthos, but like Athos, would forget that fact if he were involved in something, and like Aramis, he didn't mind a sweet or two as his mother had been an accomplished baker.

Aramis gave his biscuit a hard glare, wishing it had a bit of honey on it. "They seem quite content with their whole situation," Aramis finally responded to Porthos question.

"You don't suppose," d'Artagnan said as he laid his biscuit on his leg, forgotten for the moment, "that Athos went with him willingly?"

Aramis shook his head. "That doesn't match the story Nicholas told. Besides, what reason would Athos have to disappear without a word?"

"It wouldn't exactly be the first time, and he was acting awfully moody, even for him in the week before he disappeared." Porthos pointed out as he reached for another biscuit.

"Eat, d'Artagnan," Aramis commanded, as the boy was lost in a world of his own. Picking up the food, d'Artagnan obediently took a bite and chewed.

The three ate in contemplative silence, each lost in their own thoughts. When they were done, they decided the watch rotation and Aramis, who drew the first shift, settled his back against the tree. He watched as his brothers tried to arrange themselves comfortably on the forest floor. Experienced told him that none of them would get any decent sleep tonight, as each of them worried what they would find at the end of this journey.

After four long days on the road, the green wagon finally pulled up in front of a large mansion, at least the size of the one Athos grew up in. Off to one side was a well-cared for stable and in the distant, another larger structure whose purpose the Musketeers could not determine from their vantage point in the trees.

A well-dressed man, probably the Lord of the manor, emerged from the house and walked out to greet Corbett. Snatches of conversation carried through the air to their ears and they learned the man they were gazing upon was the Marquis Lemione, not that his name meant anything to them. Athos was the one in the group that usually recognized the noblesse when they encountered them. Aramis only knew a few, whose wives he had slept with, and he was sure he had never been here.

As they watched, the three passengers were led away by another member of the household staff, and Corbett took the wagon around to the stable yard. Melting back into the trees, the men moved to where they wouldn't be detected to determine their next move.

"We need to search all the buildings for Athos," Porthos vehemently stated as he banged his tightly clenched fist into his thigh.

"We can't just knock on the front door and ask to ransack his house now can we?" Aramis countered.

Porthos apparently didn't agree with his brother's opinion. "Why not? We're King's Musketeers."

Aramis used his left hand to rub the bridge of his nose, trying to disperse his headache. "But we are not here on official business. No, we must find another way into the house."

This caused Porthos to scowl, not liking the fact that Aramis had shot down what he thought was a perfectly good idea.

D'Artagnan, who had remained quiet up to this point, spoke up. "So what we need is to be invited into the Marquis house."

Aramis stopped rubbing his face and steepled his fingers under his chin. "That would be nice."

The boy's face grew thoughtful as he worked on something in his mind. "What gets a nobleman to open his door?"

"The King. An Army? The tax collector. Another nobleman," Porthos helpfully supplied.

"None of which we have available at the moment." D'Artagnan sighed in frustration.

Aramis tilted his head slightly to the left as he rubbed his thumb across his lower lip. "Perhaps we do."

Porthos threw an exasperated glare at his brother. "I'm pretty sure I'd know if we had the King with us."

"Not him." Aramis dismissed the snide remark. "But perhaps a nobleman."

"None of us are nobleman; that's Athos' shtick." Porthos dropped his eyes to the ground, as a bit of moisture welled up in them. A melancholy silence draped over the group.

Finally, Aramis spoke in a slow and thoughtful manner. "Yes it was. But that doesn't mean one of us can't pretend, if it gets the Marquis to offer his hospitality."

D'Artagnan grew animated as he jumped on the band wagon. "It could work. One of us as the nobleman, the other two come along as, oh I don't know, guards I suppose. After all what nobleman would go traipsing about the countryside without a guard or two."

"Even more believable," Porthos got onboard, "is a nobleman, his guard and his servant. What nobleman travels without a servant to take care of his needs?"

D'Artagnan wasn't stupid and he had a feeling that if Porthos' scenario was chosen, he knew who would be playing the servant. "Athos doesn't travel with servants." He knew it was a stupid comment but he couldn't think of anything else.

"In this case, I don't think Athos is the nobleman after which we want to pattern ourselves. I love our brother dearly, but he does have some odd leanings."

Porthos seconded Aramis' sentiments. "Yeah, like giving up his lands and titles."

Aramis brushed the crumbs from the biscuit he had consumed off his pants. "No. We will go with the nobleman, the guard, and the servant." Gracefully rising from the log on which he had been sitting; he doffed his grey hat with a flourish. "Being the most experienced thespian I, of course, will play the role of the nobleman."

"Thespian? I don't know about that word but if you mean the biggest ham, you are the right person. I'm a natural for the role of the guard, of course." Porthos cracked his knuckles and displayed a most impressive scowl.

"Leaving the last role to d'Artagnan."

Now it was the youngest Musketeer's turn to scowl. "The servant. How nice."

"As this is your first role, it wouldn't do to give you one that you had to stretch to achieve," Aramis gently teased.

"Hey. This is not my first time at role playing." He shot to his feet and held up a finger to tick of his accomplishments. "I played a disillusioned Musketeer to Vadim..."

"And he saw through your scheme and nearly blew you up." Aramis reminded him.

D'Artagnan's enthusiasm sagged a moment before he rallied. "Milady. I convinced her and the Cardinal, that I killed Athos!"

Now it was Porthos turn to shoot him down. "Doesn't count."

Facing the large Musketeer, he demanded, "Why not?"

With the look and patience of a saint, Porthos explained. "Cause you weren't playing anyone. You were playing yourself. Anyone can do that."

Much to D'Artagnan chagrin, Aramis was shaking his head in concurrence. "Truer words were never spoken. No, you shall play the servant. It is decided."

Knowing he wasn't going to win, d'Artagnan mumbled something uncomplimentary under his breath, but ceased arguing, sat down, and listened as they moved on with the planning.

Aramis also retook his seat. "We will have to hide any affiliation with the Musketeers and..."

Porthos abruptly interrupted, moving off on his own tangent. "How is that," he waved towards Aramis' outfit, "ever gonna pass as something a nobleman would wear?"

Sitting up straighter and squaring his shoulders, Aramis gave Porthos a wounded look.

The big man felt a little bad. "Look, I'm not saying I don't like your clothes. I'm just saying they aren't fancy enough to be noble."

"Black leather and lace. How is that stylish?"Aramis muttered clearly offended that Porthos didn't like the way he dressed.

Before Porthos could open his mouth to retaliate, d'Artagnan intervened, not wanting to see this style of conversation prolonged. "You were set upon by bandits on the road. Your clothes were, ah soiled, and these are all you could find as replacement, there being no fine drapers in the woods."

Porthos squinted at Aramis. "He doesn't look like he got roughed up by no bandits."

D'Artagnan easily brushed off Porthos concern. "Something easily remedied."

The muscle man of the group cracked his knuckles again, and raised his eyebrows. "I'm liking the sound of that."

Aramis tried to play it cool, but quickly lost it. "You think I'm going to sit here and let you rough me up!"

"You're welcome to stand. But you might fall down," Porthos noted as he gave Aramis an evil grin.

D'Artagnan stared Aramis straight in the eye. "For the sake of authenticity, we all will have to make sacrifices for our roles."

Aramis didn't believe for a second that d'Artagnan's pious, angelic look was real, but unfortunately, the boy was correct. "Fine, but not too hard. After all, what will become of my love life if I am hideously scarred?"

"Knowing you, it will get busier." Porthos groused as he rose to his feet.

"It might at that." Aramis agreed as he joined him aloft. "After all, I am more than just a pretty face, you know."

Without warning, Porthos' fist lashed out, caught Aramis on the cheek, and knocked him flat onto his back. "Told you to stay sitting down." Leaning over, he examined his handy work. "That looks real convincing. Gonna bruise up nicely and look, there's even a little blood."

"Trust me, it feels real convincing too." Aramis gingerly rubbed his cheek with an exploratory finger. What he did for his brothers. But if it led to finding Athos, it was worth it.


	22. Chapter 22

CHAPTER 22

The next morning, Athos dragged his aching body to the common room having reluctantly fought another three on one duel. As he passed through the tables to his usual spot in the corner, his fellow inmates all offered varying forms of congratulations except for Henri and Charles, the leaders of the group, who if anything looked more annoyed at his mere presence than normal.

Athos' duels had become quite the events and Jehan was allowing the rest of the fighters to observe from the ante-room behind the iron gate. Knowing this was occurring, Athos wasn't surprised at the accolades he was receiving from everyone but Henri and Charles.

Not that taking on three men wasn't noteworthy, but Athos wasn't doing it for the recognition. He had long ago given up the idea of doing anything for praise or glory. That romantic notion had been beaten out of him by his father, before he reached the age of twelve. It was a harsh lesson he would never forget. He was winning these duels for only two reasons: to stop innocents from being slaughtered and as a means to figure out how to bring the Marquis to justice.

Later that day on the practice field, the men kept talking about the most recent duel, to the ever increasing annoyance of Henri and Charles. They felt their leadership was being eroded by Athos and perhaps they weren't totally wrong. The rest of the men were beginning to turn to Athos for leadership and guidance, not that Athos had intended that to happen. Treville had said Athos was a natural leader of men but the Musketeer had always vehemently denied it, feeling he was a bad role model and not worthy of such a position. Yet here in this prison, he had once again unintentionally taken on the role of a leader.

Plotting to bring Athos down a peg, Henri and Charles waited until Jehan left the practice area to fetch something, and then declared they wanted to spar with Athos. The wary man was pretty sure the two were up to no good and that this would end badly for him. However, he wasn't given a choice as they belligerently stood in front of him.

"En garde," Henri declared raising his rapier and assuming the position. Athos answered in kind, matching his stance and patiently waiting for Henri to make the first move. Charles moved a little off to one side, sword at his side. The sharp-eyed Musketeer saw the betraying twitch as Henri unconsciously telegraphed his first maneuver, which Athos easily countered, before pressing his advantage for a moment, then backing off. The rest of the skirmish went on in a similar fashion, with Athos taking advantage of Henri's mistakes but never going in for the 'kill'.

Henri's anger grew exponentially, because he knew all too well his opponent wasn't truly engaged, but merely toying with him. Henri felt Athos was deliberately trying to make him out as a fool in front of the rest of the men. His anger wasn't helping him, causing his swings to become more uncontrolled.

Athos knew he could easily win this contest, but if he did it would further cement Henri's hatred of him. He was hoping he could end this without bloodshed. If this match ended in a draw everyone would save face.

Beyond the edge of frustration, Henri yelled out to his friend for assistance and Charles leapt into the fray. Suddenly, Athos found he was battling two enraged men, not one. Athos had to up his game to stay on top of this new scenario, though he still restrained from showing them up. He met all the parries but didn't press his advantages when he found holes in their defenses.

The rest of the men in the yard had stopped practice and it grew silent except for the metallic ringing of the three swords. Athos wished he had his main gauche to aid in this fight, as it was a most helpful tool in a two on one situation. But he didn't have it, so he had to be content with precise sword work and evasion.

The fight was rapidly disintegrating into more of a tavern brawl than a sword fight. At one point, Athos sent Henri's rapier sailing across the arena, before focusing on Charles who was still armed. But Henri decided he was far from done, and came up behind Athos as the musketeer engaged Charles, tackling him, and all three went down in a tangle of arms and legs. Fortunately, no one was accidentally impaled, though Athos' rapier was knocked from his hand when he hit the ground.

Charles was the only one still armed and Athos mindful of that fact flipped on his side and used his boot to kick the sword from his foe's grasp. All three men scrambled to their feet and by some unplanned mutual accord, shifted from a duel to a fist fight. The two men circled Athos who was hard pressed to keep from getting pounded by their fists. He was forced to use every dirty trick Porthos had taught him to keep from being slaughtered.

As the bout forged onward, Athos found his body was slowly succumbing to the exhaustion. As his concentration wavered, he knew he had to end this soon or he was going to get seriously injured. He was already bleeding from a split lip, cut under his left eye and by tomorrow, his torso would look like an impressionist painting. Marshaling his failing strength, he focused on Charles, lashing out with a round of punches and kicks that knocked his opponent on the ground.

"Enough," he bellowed as he placed his foot on the man's shoulder and exerted a little pressure much as LeBarge had once done to Treville. "Don't make me break it."

History repeated itself from Pinon, however this time the result was more traumatic. Chalk it up to exhaustion; he didn't react quickly enough to the warning of 'behind you' and the small dagger, wielded by Henri, found purchase in his body.

Athos managed to turn a bit towards the oncoming danger, which was the only reason his kidney was not impaled. However, his torso, on his left side, was slashed cruelly by the knife.

Jehan walked back into the arena, as Athos staggered, clutching his side as blood welled between his fingers. Seeing what happened, the trainer sprinted across the area, and before Henri could make another move against the wounded Athos, Jehan seized the blade and cuffed Henri soundly across the face, causing him to fall in the dirt.

"You fool! If you injure him so he can't fight the Marquis will hang you, then he will hang me for not stopping you."

Even though his wound was throbbing, as red blood dripped down his side, Athos laughed. Jehan's sentiments were the exact ones he had used when he discovered Aramis had slept with the Queen. He guessed everyone in life had his or her crosses to bear. His was Aramis, whose inability to keep his britches on around high ranking women, caused all sorts of trouble. Jehan had Henri and Charles trying to kill his golden goose.

As Athos slowly crumbled to his knees and drifted into unconsciousness, he heard Jehan continue to berate Henri and Charles for their stupidity. It was actually a rather pleasant way to pass out, all things considered.


	23. Chapter 23

CHAPTER 23

"I'm sorry," Aramis crooned to his soon to be suffering horse as he reached up and gave him a scratch on his poll. The stallion shifted a little leaning into the scratching with obvious delight.

Porthos, who had the horse's front, right, hoof braced between his powerful legs grunted as the horse shifted. "Hold him still would ya'," he grumbled. "This ain't easy. I'm use to taking stones out, not inserting them."

"All for a good cause," Aramis murmured though Porthos wasn't sure if Aramis was talking to him or the horse. However, one thing he was sure of was that the currently content stallion, who was enjoying being scratched, was going to be a very unhappy camper once he put his hoof back down. After a final bit of wedging the dark, curly-haired man decided it was the best he could do and he gently released the hoof he'd been holding captive.

The stallion placed it on the ground and immediately his ears, which had been relaxed, flattened in a disagreeable manner. The beast picked up his hoof and placed it down again to see if that would help, but judging by his ears it didn't. The horse took a few hobbling steps forward before turning his head to glare at Porthos.

He shrugged at the horse saying, "Don't look at me like that. It was his idea."

Aramis gave the stallion an apologetic pat on the neck. "It won't be for far and it won't be for long." He motioned for d'Artagnan to take the reins.

Still mumbling about unfairness the youngest musketeer slunk over and took the reins from Aramis. "You get to ride my horse, and I get to lead your lame one."

"All for the mission, dear boy, for the mission." Aramis swung up onto d'Artagnan's mount and settled comfortably into the saddle.

Aramis' horse's ears were still in a disagreeable position and he shook his mane and snorted in annoyance. "He won't try to bite me will he?" d'Artagnan inquired and Aramis nonchalantly shrugged.

To be safe, d'Artagnan shortened his grip on the reins leading to stallion's head to lessen the freedom the horse had to use his potentially dangerous teeth.

Aramis chuckled at d'Artagnan's cautiousness. "You are confusing my gentle lamb with Athos' black monster. My mount is a perfect gentleman."

D'Artagnan felt he had to defend Roger's honor in the absence of his owner. "Roger wouldn't hurt a fly unless it was someone trying to attack Athos."

Aramis appeared quite skeptical of that statement. "Really? Then why did the brute push me into the river that time?"

Porthos started sniggering as he recalled the incident to which Aramis was referring.

D'Artagnan started walking towards the manor house leading Aramis' lame horse, and the other two mounted Musketeers fell in alongside of him. "It was a trick that Athos taught him."

Aramis glanced down from his horse's back at d'Artagnan. "A trick? Whatever for?"

"For when he was dismounted and fighting in a battle. He taught Roger to respond to particular whistle. The horse hears the sound and then knocks over whoever is closest to Athos."

"I guess you were just too close to Athos for Roger's taste," Porthos ribbed the clearly put out musketeer.

They walked along in silence for a few minutes, while Aramis contemplated what he had learned. "So if I'm to believe you, Athos whistled indicating to Roger to push me in the water."

D'Artagnan couldn't stop the grin from spreading across his face. He recalled how the dapper Aramis had come out of the river sputtering and infuriated. "To knock you over, yes. The water being there was simply an added bonus."

d'Artagnan recalled Athos, who had been innocently standing there as Roger obeyed his furtive command, had been hard pressed to keep a smirk from appearing on his face not to mention a gleeful twinkle out of his green eyes.

The two Musketeers could tell Aramis wasn't totally convinced that Athos had taught Roger to push people over on command. The romantic musketeer was still leaning towards the theory that Roger, like his owner, was a moody beast. Why in the world would Athos have felt the need to have his horse push his brother into the freezing stream?

Aramis was fairly certain that Athos had a well-developed, if rather dry, sense of humor. Over the last five years, he was convinced that it had been Athos, and not the obvious choice Porthos, behind some of the pranks through which he had suffered. However, he could never absolutely prove his theory and when asked, Athos had simply given him that 'really' look that he usually reserved for Porthos when he caught him cheating at cards. So perhaps the brooding man did tell his moody horse to push him in the water for some transgression of which he was unaware. Aramis decided he was going to pursue this discussion at a future date after they found Athos.

Letting the subject drop, Aramis worked on getting into the mindset of a nobleman who had been ambushed by thugs, while on the way to visit his cousin in the country. He practiced the story his mind. Fortunately, between his own prowess, and that of his trusty bodyguard and servant, they had been able to fend off their attackers, but alas, not before he had sustained some minor scrapes and bruises and had his clothes rendered into scraps. Luckily, his servant's saddlebags were not lost in the skirmish and he, the noble, was able to discard the filthy remains of his once fancy clothes and suit up in the somewhat cleaner, though far more plain, spare outfit of his servant.

The story felt believable to Aramis at least on the surface. Courtesy of Porthos, he was sporting a nice cut and bruise on his cheek. As for the clothes he was wearing, they could have belonged to his servant though one might be tempted to question why they fit rather well considering d'Artagnan was taller and a few pounds lighter. But they had to hope that small detail would be overlooked.

Aramis, the nobleman, riding his servant horse; Porthos, his guard, riding his own mount; and d'Artagnan, the servant, on foot leading the lame stallion wound their way towards the front entrance of the mansion. As they drew near two guards appeared muskets at the ready asking them to state their business. Aramis, in full theatrical mode, launched into a sob story about a being a nobleman needing support from a fellow countryman. He pleadingly beseeched the guard to bring forth the Lord of the manor.

Porthos was tempted to roll his eyes at the over-the-top melodrama being put forth by Aramis, but he figured that wasn't how a trusted and loyal guard would behave around his employer. However, in spite of his best intentions a small, quiet snort did escape his lips.

"I heard that!" Aramis hissed at him as one of the guards went off to find his employer.

"Was thinking I'd better be careful when I get off my horse so I don't step in it," was Porthos' sardonic reply as a small smirk tugged at the corners of his bearded mouth.

Further discourse was put on hold as the door to the manor opened and a tall man, with dark hair that was greying at the temples, stepped onto the front steps. Aramis quickly dismounted his horse with Porthos following suit.

Sweeping his grey hat, which he had refused to be parted from, off his head he gave a small bow to the approaching man. "I humbly beseech your aid."

"Again with the beseeching," Porthos mumbled as he swept off his own hat offering up a small genuflect.

The Marquis walked down the stairs and halted a few paces away from the group of men and horses as he let his cool eyes rake over them. Aramis unconsciously straightened his posture a notch as he took a small step forward. "The Comte de Noyen, Etienne to my friends, at your service though actually, I am hoping you can be of service to us," Aramis stated with a flourish. "I was on my way to visit my dear cousin whom I haven't seen in more than ten years when we were set upon by some nasty bandits in the forest. By the grace of the Almighty we were able to fend them off, but not before receiving a few lumps ourselves."

Aramis tilted his head a bit to the left to give the Marquis a good angle on which to view his impressive facial bruise. "Pleased with our good luck we continued on our journey, but alas our bad luck was not yet over as my favorite stallion has come up lame."

As he gestured towards the black horse whose head was hanging low and injured hoof was barely resting on the ground. D'Artagnan and even the seasoned Porthos struggled not laugh at Aramis' over-the-top performance, though Aramis' horse seemed to be getting into the spirit of this farce too by looking every bit as dejected as his owner claimed. Somehow, the fact that Aramis' stallion was a ham, like his owner, came as was no real surprise to the other musketeers.

"That is quite a string of bad luck," the Marquis congenially agreed. "Who did you say you were on your way to visit, Comte de Noyen?"

"Etienne, please," he gently corrected. "The Comte Thomas de Albeine."

Aramis had met the Comte at the palace when on guard duty. The Comte was not a particularly well known man, which hopefully made him a safe bet to claim as a relative. At least Aramis would be able to provide a physical description and a few personality quirks of the man, if required. One learned quite a lot about a noble when forced to serve as their escort. This particular Comte had a distinctive feature that might assist Aramis in bolstering his claim.

The Marquis Lemione squinted slightly as he considered the name. "I believe I may have met him in passing."

Lowering his voice and leaning forward as if sharing a confidence, Aramis remarked, "My cousin never has been one of the more popular nobles at court. He tends to be one of those people always lurking in the background. He remains," Aramis dropped his voice to a bare whisper, "socially awkward."

Taking a step closer to the Marquis as if to exclude everyone else from their conversation, he added, "Of course his...ah... nose doesn't help his cause." Aramis gave a quick tap on his own handsome nose. "Comes from his mother's side. Luckily, we are relatives through our fathers." The musketeer shook his head woefully. "Finding a suitable wife was...challenging. The bride price was...considerable." Aramis left out the part that the Comte's wife was rather, if one were to be polite, homely.

A small smile flickered on the Marquis face. "Relatives can be a trial. But one, none-the-less, we all have to bear." A snap of the Marquis fingers had a servant swiftly appearing at his side. "See the horses to the stable and have my farrier examine the stallion's hoof."

The boy gave a slight bow, as he collected the reins and led the three horses towards the stable.

Lemione turned his attention back on Aramis. "It is a series of unfortunate circumstances that brought you to my door, my friend. Let us see if we can break that chain and start anew. I invite you, Comte de Noyen, to be my guest while your horse recovers." With a guiding touch on Aramis' elbow, he proceeded into his mansion.

Porthos and d'Artagnan exchanged glances. "I guess that means we're in."

"Yes," d'Artagnan agreed. "Let's hope we find Athos somewhere inside."

Porthos' worried, dark eyes swept the very large, multi-roomed house. "That's a lot of rooms to search on the sly."

The younger man clapped him on the shoulder. "The sooner we start the sooner we find Athos." His tone was confident and positive raising the other man's spirit.


	24. Chapter 24

CHAPTER 24

For the next two days the men were wined and dined, or to be precise, Aramis enjoyed the fine hospitality of their host. D'Artagnan, as Aramis' manservant, spent most of his time standing a few paces behind his 'Lord' waiting to be useful that is when he wasn't pouring, fetching, or running errands. Porthos, as the bodyguard, spent most of his time lurking about the suite that Aramis had been given to use during his stay. It appeared a touch impolite continually to follow Aramis around inside the mansion, as if to suggest their host's house was not a safe place. The good point about this arrangement was it provided him more freedom than d'Artagnan, and he used that flexibility furtively to search the household.

Trying to do his part, the younger man discretely pumped his fellow servants for information that might be useful in finding Athos, if he were indeed here. However, he hadn't learned much though he did report to Porthos and Aramis when they were alone in the suite that he felt like there was something strange going on here, an unsettling undercurrent. But, so far, none of the people had spoken of anything unusual.

Aramis was doing a splendid job as the Comte de Noyen. He and the Marquis Lemione, Guillaume, were now on a first name basis. On the afternoon of the second day, they sat on a small patio sipping wine and searching in vain for a breeze to temper the hot, humid air.

"Tell me, Etienne. Do you like sports?" The Marquis twirled his glass of fine wine between his long elegant fingers.

Aramis wasn't sure where this was going, so he played the middle ground. "I have been known to hunt on occasion."

Giving a little negative shake of his head the other man took a sip of his deep red, vintage before replying. "I was thinking more of observing, not participating. And wagering."

Betting was something Aramis was on solid ground with having won more than a few coins off of Porthos and his card games. "Not to boast, but I'm fairly good with a deck of cards," he replied, even though Porthos was the one who excelled in that area.

The Marquis eyes wandered across the estate's grounds, and Aramis tracked their line of sight as they came to rest on a fortified structure in the distance. "I find cards mundane. I prefer wagering on something with a bit more action."

"Such as..." Aramis' eyes slightly narrowed as he prompted his host to continue his discourse.

The Marquis concentrated his entire attention on Aramis with such intensity the musketeer had to force himself not to squirm. "Dueling. And betting on the outcome."

Aramis had to bite his tongue to keep from immediately blurting out that dueling was illegal as he doubted that would keep him in good graces with his host. Instead, he took a more neutral and he hoped agreeable approach. "I see how that could be more stimulating than cards and perhaps financially rewarding if one made good selections."

A broad smile appeared on the Marquis face satisfied with the answer he received. "Well, my new found friend. Tomorrow you will have a chance to witness just how exciting and rewarding it can be. Assuming," he gave a slight cock of his head, "you make the right, selection."

Leaning forward a bit in his chair, Aramis inquired, "How is it you're so certain that there will be a duel tomorrow?"

"Because I have arranged it!" The Marquis was incredibly pleased with himself as he elaborated. "You see, Etienne, I have two stables on my estate. One filled with horses and one filled with men! As luck would have it my neighbors share my passion for the sport, so we arrange matches amongst ourselves. Not that we personally duel you understand."

He paused to take a quick sip of his wine focusing for a moment on the building in the distance again. A small, cruel smile graced his countenance. "It would be much too risky. And why bother when others can do it for you?"

He looked over at Aramis wanting to make sure that his guest was comprehending his meaning. A small nod from Aramis assured the Marquis that they were on the same page. Lemione gave a small, knowing smile. "Anything can be bought for a price, monetary and otherwise. And of course we wager on the outcome because it is expensive to stable the fighters."

Aramis forced his body to relax and not portray the excitement he was feeling. "And where do you find these fighters for your events?"

The Marquis gave a lax wave of his bejeweled hand. "I hire them from here and there. Paris, mostly."

Keeping his voice even, Aramis sought to clarify the Marquis statement. "Hire? You pay them?"

"Mostly. Now and then I get a few strays. I have found my dear Comte that a fairly paid servant tends to be loyal and work harder, eager to serve his master."

Trying not to cringe at the connotation the word 'master' brought to mind, Aramis, who had been slackly holding his glass of wine in his hand raised it in a salute . "How very... enlightened of you. To tomorrow's duel. May you be as enlightened when you place your bet."

The Marquis acknowledged the toast before taking a sip. "That won't be as hard as it may seem. I have an excellent beast in my stable who has been winning a lot of money for me. I admit his first time out he was a huge disappointment. But Jehan, my trainer, found a way, shall we say, to motivate him."

Aramis' stomach plunged to his knees upon hearing the Marquis words cas well as observing the evil grin on the Marquis face. Aramis was piecing together a scenario in his mind, and if he was correct that the fighter was Athos, he was extremely concerned on what type of motivation was being used. "And what did you find motivated him?"

The Marquis reminded Aramis of a wolf that had just brought down his prey. "Guilt and honor," the Lord of the manor smugly replied.

It had to be Athos! Aramis swiftly rose from his chair turning his back to the Marquis to hide the look of horror he was sure was on his face. To gain time to get his emotions in check, Aramis strolled to the edge of the patio area under the pretense of studying the building in the distance.

Lemione remained seated as he continued his tale. "Once properly broken, he has won every duel. Remarkable swordsman for a peasant." A deep sigh escaped from his lips. "Alas, my neighbors aren't thrilled at having their fighters defeated each time they step into the ring. It has dampened the mood and the wagering. So I have had to up the ante to get them to participate. Tomorrow's duel promises to be particularly spectacular."

"Perhaps you would do me the honor," Aramis suggested as he finally turned around to face Lemione, "of giving me a peek at your secret weapon so I might judge for myself where to best place my funds."

Animatedly, the Marquis jumped to his feet obviously pleased by the request. "Yes, let us do exactly that!" A snap of his fingers had the lad, who'd been discreetly standing in the shadows, promptly at his side, head bowed, and eyes downcast. "Run and tell the Captain to assemble the men for an inspection." A quick bob of the head and the boy was off running. "I will show you my entire stable of beasts. I am sure you will find it both enlightening and entertaining."

"I'm sure I will. However, if we are going to be strolling around in this blasted heat," Aramis began as he squinted up at the offending golden globe, "then I should like to get my hat. Excuse me for a moment while I fetch it. Unlike your excellently trained servants, mine does not seem to be anywhere about." Aramis gave the Marquis a little shrug and sad smile.

The Marquis laughed as he moved closer to clap a friendly hand on Aramis shoulder. "I can give you a few pointers, my dear Comte de Noyen. After all, it is part of my duty, as a Marquis, to instruct others."

Lemione's subtle reminder that he was higher on the food chain than Aramis did not go unnoticed by the musketeer who acknowledged it with a slight head bow of his own. "I am sure Marquis Lemione that would be most educational and useful. I thank you for the offer."

The Marquis clapped his hands and rubbed them together in anticipation. "Excellent. Fetch your hat and I'll meet you at the door shortly."

Knowing a dismissal when he heard one, Aramis made a last little ego-stroking bow of deference before he hurried off to his rooms.

Luckily, Porthos and d'Artagnan were in the suite when he arrived. When he entered the room his brothers immediately knew something had happened as excitement practically oozed out of Aramis. After taking a moment to calm his breathing, Aramis rapidly brought them up to speed on what he discovered.

"Perhaps the fact that the Marquis is holding duels is the secret the servants are concealing. It is illegal," D'Artagnan suggested.

"I dunno." Porthos paused for a contemplative moment. "I don't think the majority of the household servants would really care. I mean it doesn't affect them now does it."

D'Artagnan couldn't disagree with what the man said since it was his impression from hanging around the Marquis servants that whatever they were refusing to disclose was a very great secret. Dueling didn't really fit the scenario.

"So you're thinking that Athos was kidnapped in Paris, brought here, and is now being forced to duel for this man?"

Before Aramis could answer Porthos' question, d'Artagnan interjected, "Do you think Athos was kidnapped? Or did he go willingly? Athos was acting very strangely before he disappeared."

That sobering thought had them all falling silent. The youngest musketeer was right in his observation. The often reclusive Athos in the last week before his disappearance had been even more withdrawn and moody. They had spoken about it after his disappearance, and each musketeer carried some hidden guilt that they should have been more supportive of the hurting brother.

"Athos wouldn't abandon us," Porthos finally declared with fierce loyalty. Aramis was the mother hen of the quartet, always worrying about their health and safety. But Porthos was the mother bear, passionately protective of his brothers, always willing to believe and forgive any of their idiosyncrasies.

"And if he did," Aramis added with a forced lightness, "we'll just have to make him see the errors of his ways."


	25. Chapter 25

CHAPTER 25

It is not an uncommon practice to rouse the unconscious by flinging water, preferably cold, into their faces. However, the lad entrusted by Jehan to carry out this task on Athos must have been unclear on the parameters because he grabbed a bucket of water that had been sitting in the sun for hours and dumped the whole thing directly over the head of the slumped fighter.

Athos, who had drifted into unconscious with the sound of Jehan yelling woke under the same conditions except that the person being scolded was different.

"You stupid imbecile! Are you trying to drown him! Or maybe boil him like a potato!" The poor lad stood there holding the empty bucket trembling under Jehan's verbal onslaught.

Sputtering and coughing from the deluge of hot water, Athos' eyes involuntarily flew open, were assaulted by the stark brightness of the mid-day sun, and his stomach immediately staged a rebellion. The half-awake man was barely able to get his confused muscles to respond in time to roll him onto his hands and knees so he could to expel his breakfast on the ground as opposed to on his body.

Kneeling in the dirt like a dejected dog, he waited for his belly to settle a bit. When it finally did he sat back on his knees, folded his arms over his abdomen carefully avoiding the knife wound, bowed his dripping head, and simply tried to breathe in a manner that didn't aggravate any body part. He was dimly aware of sounds, voices, nearby but he honestly didn't care what they were saying or even if they were addressing him. He simply focused on slowly breathing in and out.

Eventually, a rough hand grasped his shoulder, shaking him, and forcing him to painfully raise his head to see if he could get the annoyance to stop. Squinting from under his dark lashes, as he slowly traced the offending hand to its owner's face.

"Wake up! Damn you!" a muffled voice command in a tone that wasn't the least bit sympathetic.

As far as Athos was concerned, it wasn't his damn fault he had been rendered unconscious and he gave his shoulder a vigorous shrug to try to dislodge the offending hand. However, in doing so he caused the skin near his newly received wound to stretch and scream in bloody protest. Letting loose with a moan that would have made Porthos proud, he doubled over again.

The hand was swiftly removed, which was nice, but the yelling started again though based on the direction of the sound it wasn't aimed at him. "If he can't fight tomorrow I'm personally going to kill the both of you. What the hell were you thinking?"

The hollering continued, very loudly, along those lines for a while and even though it wasn't directed at him it was piercing Athos' head like a bolt from a crossbow. Desperately wanting it to cease, he gingerly straightened his body into a more upright position before he spoke. "Do you think you could be quiet?"

Jehan, who had been berating Henri and Charles who had caused this situation, came to a surprised halt in his tirade as he peered down at the man kneeling on the ground. "You're OK?"

Though he supposed it was in the eye of the beholder what the word 'OK' meant, Athos went with his standard injury answer. "I'm fine," which given his condition was probably a bit of a stretch of the definition of fine.

However, Jehan was happy to believe that answer, unlike Aramis, who would have rolled his eyes and sadly shook his head, or Porthos, who would have given him a derisive snort, or d'Artagnan who would have given him sad puppy dog eyes. "Get up then," he demanded and Athos wondered if it were too late to change his health status.

Gritting his teeth as he tried to ignore the taunting voice of Aramis in his mind mocking his 'fineness', Athos sluggishly struggled to his feet. When he finally achieved vertical he swayed slightly standing there in the hot sun trying to get his bearings.

When his eyes finally focused, he discovered he was still in the middle of the training arena where he had passed out. The damn sun was still beating down on him, adding to his misery. As he was about to recommend he be moved into the shade before he kissed the dirt again, a sweaty lad burst through the gate and made his way in Jehan's direction. The boy had delivered the Marquis message to the Captain who had sent him into the training yard to alert Jehan.

"The master," the boy started coming to a halt in front of Jehan, "is on his way. He wants the men lined up and ready for inspection."

Athos wanted to laugh at the horrified expression on Jehan's face, but common sense won out and he only allowed himself the luxury of a very small, quickly fading, smirk.

Jehan ran a tense hand through his matted, blond hair as he alternatively glared at Henri and Charles. This kept getting better and better. "I swear if anything bad comes out of this I will personally strangle you with my bare hands."

It was a little unclear whom Jehan was going to kill, but Athos chose to believe it was Henri and Charles though he wasn't sure he wasn't also in the running.

"What a mess," the trainer moaned as his eyes roamed over to where Athos was pathetically attempting to remain upright. "We have to get him cleaned up and looking fit." He walked over to stand toe to toe with Athos. "Get it together. I don't care how you do it, but when the Marquis walks through that gate you better be able to convince him you are fit as a fiddle."

The or else was implied. There was no doubts in Athos' mind that Jehan would find an 'or else' that would be a suitable punishment most likely involving the death of innocent people.

Crisis situations require strong and firm leadership and without even thinking about it, Athos slipped into the role. "Get me a bucket of water, a clean cloth, and a bandage," he demanded of the trainer, "if you want me to have any chance in pulling this off."

A bit of Athos' Comte demanding tone had crept into his voice, but if Jehan heard it, he ignored it too focused on not ending up as a victim of the Marquis anger. The man was not going to be happy if his cash cow, his golden goose, his favorite prize fighter, was not fit for the arena.

"And," Athos added, "I need to get out of the damn sun." Without waiting for permission, he unsteadily made his way over to a shelter that shaded some benches, where they were allowed to take infrequent rest breaks.

Once in the shade, he struggled to remove his shirt to examine the wound. As he was studying the raw-edged gash, the boy arrived with the previously requested items.

Athos glanced up from his self-inspection at the servant. "Good. Now find me a shirt without a bloodstain on it, preferably a dark one if we hope to pull this off," he growled at the lad. The boy only gave a cursory glance at Jehan for confirmation, before scampering off to obey.

Gritting his teeth, Athos took the rag, dipped it in the tepid water, washed the blood off his face, and then proceeded to clean his wounded side as best as he could all the time wishing Aramis was here to assist. He vowed, if he escaped this hellacious situation, and if he was reunited with his brothers, and if he ever got hurt again, and if Aramis had to take care of him, he would be the model patient and do everything the medic-musketeer commanded of him, cheerfully. Or as cheerfully as he could. Taking care of one's own wounds was not ideal, especially since he knew that this one would require stitches. His needlework, unlike Aramis', left a lot to be desired, especially when he did it on his own person.

Once he had the wound cleaned up to the best of his ability given the situation, he dried off the area with his old shirt before picking up the bandage. Jehan was standing there watching him, and Athos barked at him to assist.

Though he didn't show it, Jehan was startled at first at what appeared to be a complete reversal of character in the man demanding his help. Gone was the meek and mild fighter, and in his place was a commander. It only served to confirm what he had always believed that there was more, much more, to this man then he was letting them see. This man was playing them, but for what reasons Jehan had no idea. Still, the immediate issue was to get him patched up enough to pass the Marquis inspection, so he pushed his suspicions aside for the moment. There would be time, if they both survived the next hour, to figure out this riddle later.

Athos shoved the scraps of materials that were secured by the lad to serve as a bandage at Jehan. Next, he provided detailed instructions on how to wrap the material about his torso. By the time they were done, Jehan knew one more thing about the man in front of him; he was familiar with patching up wounds.

Jehan let his eyes wander across the exposed torso of the man in front of him and noted the scars smattered across his upper chest and shoulders. It didn't take a genius to conclude this man had been in quite a few fights. Given all the clues to date, Jehan concluded that this man was once a soldier. It nicely tied together all the anomalies that made up this man to include his abilities, whenever the situation required, for strategy and swordsmanship.

The lad sent to fetch a shirt returned with two, an ivory, and a darker grey-green one. Though the ivory one would have been a better choice given the extreme heat, Athos, without hesitation choose the darker one. Knowing the wound in his side was still seeping blood, he felt there was a better chance the dark one would conceal that fact from the casual observer.

Bumbling, he finally managed to get the shirt over his head and pulled down cursing under his breath the entire time and wishing one of the dolts standing around him, staring, would think to assist. When he finally succeeded, he dropped down onto the bench in the shade, dipped his hand in the bucket of water, and patted it over the back of his bowed neck.

Deciding the situation was under control as best as could be expected, Jehan redirected his attention on getting ready for the upcoming inspection. First, he had the lad dispose of the bloody shirt and rag ensuring there was no damning evidence lying about. Next, he had all the weapons, even though they were quite dull, collected and secured as it made the Marquis nervous to have them in the hands of his fighters, unless they were in the ring. The last thing Jehan did was decide in what order to line the men up. It seemed prudent to keep Henri and Charles at the far end, while placing Athos between two trusted men who would, if the man started swaying, discreetly anchor him.

He sent the boy back to wait by the outermost gate to give some advanced notice of when the Marquis arrived. By doing this he could allow Athos, who was still sitting hunched over on the bench, to remain seated until the last moment.

Jehan felt he had the situation under control to the best of his abilities given the cards he had been dealt. Only time and fate would determine if it were good enough. If it weren't heads would roll and it was very likely one of them was currently attached to his neck.


	26. Chapter 26

CHAPTER 26

Hat in hand with what he hoped was an excited expression on his face, Aramis met the Marquis by the manor's heavy wooden double doors. The two men headed outside into the sizzling heat with the drone of the insects making it quite unpleasant. Though it took less than fifteen minutes to walk to the fortress-like building, and their pace was quite leisurely, both men were uncomfortably sweaty upon arrival.

Aramis couldn't help stopping and staring at the structure in front of him. It was literally a fortress albeit a smallish one. The Marquis noted his fascination and enlightened him on its history. "My ancestors use to house prisoners way out here when the ruling party did not wish to have them in Paris. As luck would have it this abandoned fort was already on the estate, and when the King made it known of his wishes to have certain extremists as far from his royal person as possible, it didn't take my ancestors much to convert this fine structure into a suitable prison. Eventually, Kings stopped sending prisoners and this place was left to deteriorate. However, when I started up my little games this seemed like a perfect place to house my fighters as well as conduct the duels. It didn't take much to convert it as you will see inside. My first wife, a delicate creature, didn't relish the idea of having such brutes too near the main house. You understand."

"Of course," Aramis replied as he studied the fortress. As far as he could see there was one way in and one way out. The stone walls appeared thick, tall, and highly impenetrable. Aramis gestured towards the gate. "Is this the only way in?"

"Yes," Lemione replied as he moved forward again.

"Well," Aramis commented as the duo moved past the guard and through the wide-walled archway, "your wife must have felt most safe."

"She did although she remained delicate and a worrier. Not whom I wanted to marry you understand, but my father arranged it as she was from a good family." He looked over at Aramis and knowingly shrugged.

"It is the curse of the nobleman not to be able to marry for love," Aramis commiserated. Though he thought, Athos had broken with tradition and married for love and look where that had gotten him. However Aramis, the romantic, would believe to his dying days love could prevail.

"She died more than ten years ago giving birth to our son who also died." The Marquis didn't appear the least bit disturbed by the death or his wife and infant son. Being charitable, Aramis chalked it up to the fact it happened a long time ago and the grief had dulled.

"And you have never remarried?" Aramis asked conversationally as he followed the Marquis towards a wooden building inside the fortress walls. "What about an heir for the estate?"

"It's on my list," the Marquis answered in a tone that indicated this conversation was over.

Out of the corner of his eye, Aramis saw a small lad move from the shadows and dart across the open courtyard towards one of the internal gates. He didn't have much time to ponder the event as from the shade of the building a man stepped forth, dressed neatly in the manner of a guard.

"This is the Captain of my guards and keeper of this facility," the Marquis explained moving close enough to the Captain to give him a resounding slap on the back. "Captain, this is the Comte de Noyen."

Respectfully, the Captain gave the impression of a small bow.

"He will be betting on tomorrow's duel and thought it best to inspect the merchandise before betting his hard earned cash. Well," the Marquis laughed, "perhaps the cash wasn't so hard to earn, after all he only had to be born the first son to get it."

Aramis and the Captain laughed at the attempt at humor. "We should all be so fortunate," the Captain returned though there was no doubt the 'we' was really 'he', who was a poor soldier. "Would you like to rest in the shade for a moment and partake of some refreshments before inspecting the men?" A table and chairs stood ready in the shade with wine and fruit.

"What an excellent idea. It is unbearable even for August," the Marquis noted as he took the best chair leaving Aramis and the Captain to figure out the rest of the seating arrangements. The Captain, who was certainly not a fool, allowed Aramis the second best chair before he settled in the last one and poured the wine.

The lad who'd been stationed by the main gate to give Jehan a warning of the Marquis arrival came bursting through the gate, across the hot sands of the training arena and slid to a halt in front of the trainer. "They have arrived!" he breathlessly announced.

Jehan was quick to action knowing his Lord expected the men lined up and ready when he entered the arena. "On your feet! Follow me!" He walked into the middle of the training area and instructed the men to line up in the pre-determined order.

Athos was the last to leave the shaded area. The sun hit his damp, dark, wavy hair, and his headache, which had abated a little in the shade, came back with a vengeance. However, he couldn't let it overwhelm him, so he lifted his head a little higher in defiance and marched after the rest of the men taking his place in line. Once they were satisfactorily arranged, Jehan walked down the line doing a last minute inspection. When he got to Athos, he reached out and adjusted his shirt to better conceal the bandage underneath it.

The plan, with the boy at the gate to watch, had seemed fool-proof. What they hadn't counted on was the refreshments that the Marquis, his guest, and the Captain were now enjoying at a leisurely pace, while the fighters stood waiting and sweating in the training yard. Athos was finding this unfortunate delay particularly vexing as he tried not to pass out again. To keep his mind occupied, he made mental bets on which of the drops of sweat running down his back would reach the waistband of his trousers first.

Finally, the gate creaked open and all the men's heads bowed and their eyes, other than Jehan's, immediately focused on their boots. They all knew that the Marquis when he made these inspections expected to see them in that posture.

The Marquis went through the gate first into the training yard, followed by Aramis, with the Captain bringing up the rear. Aramis strained to see the line of men in the distance, his eyes desperately sweeping down the row of bowed heads looking for one in particular. His heart began to beat harder in his chest as he focused on the dark haired, bowed head, fourth from the right. His eyes ran up and down the man's physique and he was fairly sure it was Athos, even though he appeared thinner. Aramis tried to keep his face neutral as they approached the line, but he swore his heart was beating so loud that it would betray him to the Marquis and the Captain.

Athos, eyes downcast, had no idea how close his beloved brother was to him. He heard voices, but the buzzing in his ears was making them indistinct and fuzzy.

The Marquis started on the far end of the line from where Athos was standing and he stopped in front of each of the fighters and gave Aramis statistics on them, almost as if they were race horses. Aramis fretted that Athos might give him away when it came to be his turn to be scrutinized by the Marquis, so when they were one man away from Athos, he started loudly asking questions about the fighter in front of them praying his brother would recognize his voice.

Athos did hear Aramis' voice and thought that on top of everything else he was now hallucinating. Keeping his head bowed, he bit down on his lower lip to try to keep his muddled brain focused on the task at hand. Only a few more minutes and this would be over and he could collapse in peace.

"This," the Marquis exclaimed as he moved in front of Athos, "is the one I was talking about. He will be fighting tomorrow and winning lots of money for me." He rubbed his hands together in gleeful anticipation.

Aramis stepped between Lemione and Athos turning a critical eye on his brother. "I don't know, Guillaume." He reached out and clamped a hand on Athos' bicep. "He appears rather scrawny to me."

Hardly daring to believe, but unable to stop himself, Athos slowly raised his head until his green eyes met with those of the man standing in front of him holding his arm. He didn't say a word. He didn't need too. His eyes said it all; joy, sorrow, confusion, pain, hope.

Aramis, knowing his face wasn't visible to anyone but Athos, smiled and mouthed "Brother."

As much as he wanted to gaze upon the blessed face of his brother forever, Athos knew protocol called for his eyes to be averted, so with a last look of despair, he cast his eyes downward again to avoid suspicion.

Aramis' heart broke at the down-trodden man standing in front of him and he desperately wanted to offer Athos some comfort to sustain him until they could plan a way for him to escape. Under the guise of still examining the man he was supposed to bet on, Aramis placed both hands on the man's shoulders and gave a gentle squeeze. "I really don't feel any muscle tone. Are you sure you have the right man?" Aramis kept his hands on Athos' shoulders but shifted his gaze to the far end of the line where Henri stood. "That man down there seems like a much more impressive specimen."

As the Marquis and Captain's focus shifted from Athos to Henri, Aramis leaned forward and placed a kiss on the top of Athos' head. "Faith and courage, my brother," he whispered. As he glanced down hopping to see an acknowledgement from Athos, his eyes spotted the red-tinged bandage now visible because he had shifted Athos' shirt when he grasped his shoulders. "You're hurt!" he hissed and that did get a reaction from Athos.

From under his unruly bangs, Athos eyes flickered upwards as he warned, "Don't. It will get us killed."

Aramis didn't understand what was going on or even whom 'us' was for sure, but he heard the pleading desperation in Athos' six words, so he merely released the man's shoulders, straightened his shirt to conceal the bandage again, and turned to face Marquis. "I have my doubts though you haven't steered me wrong yet, so I guess I will bet on him."

The Marquis moved away from the men, heading back to the gate, chatting away about the upcoming duel. He kept hinting that it would be something spectacular, but when pressed by Aramis, clammed up, saying he wanted it to be a surprise.

Once Jehan was sure the Marquis and his guest had cleared the compound, he released the men to return their quarters. The common room had food laid out on the tables for their evening repast and the men, all but Athos, eagerly found places to sit.

Athos wearily continued to his cell and sank onto his pallet in a stupor. A part of him wondered if he had really seen Aramis or if it had been some heat produced hallucination. He wanted to believe, had to believe that his brothers had come to rescue him. So he clung on to that small shred of hope to make it through his nearly sleepless, pain-filled night.

That night back in the main house, it took all Aramis' persuasion to keep his fellow Musketeers from immediately heading to the fortress prison and breaking Athos free. Though he shared their desire to rescue their friend as quickly as possible, he knew that putting care into the plan could mean the difference between escaping alive and unharmed, and the unthinkable opposite. Also, Aramis reasoned with them, they still had no idea why Athos was a captive; could his captivity be of his own choosing? Some sort of mission? They knew it wasn't sanctioned by Treville, but perhaps Athos had been given direction by another?

Arguing reduced to grumbling and finally a bit of under the breath muttering as d'Artagnan and Porthos cooled down and realized their friend was right. They had to proceed slowly with caution and thoughtfulness. However, if they determined their brother's life was in danger, then they would bring the fury of a tornado swiftly down upon the heads of anyone trying to hurt Athos.


	27. Chapter 27

CHAPTER 27

Athos woke up the next morning stiff, sore, and out-of-sorts though he wasn't sure sleep was the right term to describe what he did last night. More accurately, he passed out for periods of time interspersed with moments of disturbed consciousness. When he was awake, he was in physical pain, and when he wasn't, he was plagued as nightmares tormented him. No matter how one looked at it, it wasn't a recipe for rejuvenation.

He really must have been unconscious, not asleep since he had no clue how the bucket of water and clean rags had come to be in his cell. It scared him that he was that vulnerable in a place such as this and it strengthened his resolve to his escape.

Knowing the bandage needed to be changed if he wanted to avoid the risk of infection, he slowly sat up and crawled over to where the bucket and rags were placed. It was not a fun ordeal trying to remove the blood-soaked material, which had adhered to his tender skin overnight. But, he soaked them as best as he could then bit down on his already abused lower lip and ripped them off.

After he had the wound exposed, and got his pain levels under control with some serious deep breathing exercises, he examined the gash in the dim light of the cell. Thankfully, it wasn't as quite as deep as he originally thought probably due to the dull practice blades they used. However, the skin around it was already a bit crimson, like the Red Guard's capes, hot to the touch, and he knew what that meant.

It served as a reminder he needed to escape this place soon if he wanted to survive; and he did want to survive. Seeing Aramis yesterday cemented that fact in his brain. Yes, he had lost Thomas, his flesh and blood brother five years ago, but he had gained three more brothers that were equally as important to him. Being reunited with them overrode his self-imposed-guilt, at least for the moment.

With renewed resolve, he finished awkwardly rebinding his wounded side before climbing to his feet. Forcing his body to do a few gentle stretches, he was a bit more limber when he finally headed into the common room. The morning meal was on the tables and though he wasn't hungry, he sat at his usual bench in the corner, poured a mug of water, and ripped a hunk of bread off the loaf. The water felt good sliding down his parched throat and he quickly refilled his glass for second time. His resolve to eat, however, fell by the wayside without his three consciences' there to nag him into actually putting the bread in his mouth, chewing, and swallowing. By the time the group filed into the practice area, he had only managed to consume about three small mouthfuls of food.

Athos followed his cellmates onto the training grounds though he knew he wouldn't be expected to spar today because of the upcoming duel. Once outside, he headed over to the shade where he did another series of stretches and warm up exercises to loosen his stiff muscles. He alternated mild exercise with time spent resting on the bench watching the events unfolding around him.

Unable to resist, he eventually wandered out of the shade into the already fierce morning sun to provide some pointers to the newest recruits. He did this not to show off his superiority, but because he knew when these fighters were put in the ring, their success or failure had direct consequences upon the innocent people of this estate. Until he was able to bring this Marquis to justice for his heinous crimes, he was going to do everything possible within his limited sphere of influence to keep people alive.

Midday found him back in the blissfully shaded area for the meal break where once again he partook of copious amounts of water and munched on grapes forgoing the heavier foods. The grapes were sweet and refreshing as they slid down his throat, bringing back memories of the picnics he and Anne, his wife, had in the meadows of his estates: the food, the companionship, the intimacy. Before his mind could wander too far down that self-defeating path, he slammed the doors shut. This was not the time or place to get lost in the past; he had the living to think about at the moment.

Watching as Jehan made his way towards him, Athos knew it must be time to go to the ante-room to await the duel. Since he had been fighting so often, they had dispensed with the formality of choosing weapons. His preferred rapier and main gauche, the best of the ones available, had been set aside for his exclusive use along with the belt to carry them. All those items, along with a whetstone, would be waiting for him on the table in the ante-room. As any expert swordsman would, he insisted he was the only one that was allowed to sharpen his blades, crafting the edge into a lethal point worthy of his skills and talents. He had even managed to get in some practice with the ill-balanced parrying dagger. It had been tough, but he was almost able to predict the aerodynamics of the device and how to compensate so it landed in its' intended target.

Stopping twenty feet away, Jehan nodded to Athos who silently rose and followed as the trainer turned and walked towards the dueling arena. Athos could feel the eyes of the rest of the men glued on him as he moved away, but no one said anything or wished him good luck. It was not their way, nor his. They were not a band of brothers fighting for a common goal, but simply a series of men thrown together by circumstances, each with their own agenda. With nothing to unite them, they were islands onto themselves.

The ante-room when they entered it was several degrees cooler. It was built in the heart of solid stone fortress and the niches, high up on the wall, let in little light and even less heat keeping the area cool. Upon entering, Athos immediately went to inspect the weapons on the table ensuring they were the ones he preferred. When he was satisfied, he sat, reaching for the whetstone, to begin working their edges.

Usually Jehan left immediately, but for some reason today he stood watching Athos carefully crafting the edges of his rapier. For a long period of time, the only sound was the metallic scraping of rock against metal. Just when Athos thought the trainer would grow bored and leave, he spoke.

"Who are you?" Jehan inquired. "I have known you for two months and have come to the conclusion you are not who you pretend to be."

Without looking up from the task at hand, Athos asked a question of his own. "What does it matter?"

Jehan moved from the far side of the room to stand directly across from Athos, whose head was bowed concentrating on the task at hand. "Because today you are likely to die."

The slight bobble in the whetstone's path down the blade told the trainer his comment had hit home though the voice that responded was as cool and collected as ever. "And why should today be any different?"

"Because today you are being set up to fail," Jehan answered bluntly.

Athos wasn't sure why this man was suddenly taking him into his confidence, but he heard a measure of honesty in the man's voice behooving him to take note. This was no idle chatter to pass the time; this was a life and death matter, his survival. Deliberately placing the rapier on the wooden table and laying the whetstone next to it, he stood and raised his intense green eyes to meet Jehan's cool blue ones. "Why?"

The intensity of the man's face staring at him and the forceful delivery of that one word almost made Jehan take a step backwards. It cemented in his mind that Armand was no ordinary peasant. "It's all about the money. Why we come here. Why we serve. Why we fight. Why we die. On both sides of the equation, it is about the coin."

Folding his arms across his chest being carefully not to aggravate his wound, Athos studied the man in front of him. "You claim I am not what I seem to be, though neither are you. You have the speech patterns, when you choose, of a man of education. Your fighting skills are refined and you know how to handle groups of men."

Athos paused for a moment reading the reaction his words were having on Jehan and knew he had hit the target on all three accounts. "A second son, or third, of a noble family. Forced off the estate for some reason. Became a solider but for some reason didn't rise to the level you felt you deserved so you left, or were thrown out. Either way you ended up bitter by what life handed you. You ended up here, working for a mad man, training men to die, and condemning innocent servants to death. How do you live with yourself?"

With a cry of outrage, Jehan grabbed Athos by the collar of his shirt and shoved him hard against the stone wall. Athos didn't let this transgression pass. Instead of backing down as he had for the last two months, he tossed away all vestiges of the meekness, and swiftly and efficiently broke free. Grabbing the dagger on the table, he had the sharp edge pressed against Jehan's exposed throat as he reversed their positions, shoving the trainer against the rough, stone wall. The two angry men stood with their faces inches apart, ragged breathing the only sound in the room. Athos' eyes were as sharp as the dagger he held to the man's throat as they tore into Jehan. Finally, as the testosterone levels subsided and Athos realized that killing this man served no purpose other than an outlet for his mis-placed anger, he lowered the blade as he stepped backwards.

Jehan's shaky hand rose to massage his neck were the blade had rested surprised not to find even the slightest nick. A small part of him admired the control of this man who he had been torturing for the last two months. If their roles had been reserved, and it had been him, he would have slit the man's throat without a second thought. Once again, he wondered with whom he was really dealing.

After taking a few deep breaths to calm his temper, which in turn aggravated his wound making him wince, Athos moved away placing the table between him and Jehan as neutral ground. In a cool and collected tone, he asked again, "Why am I being set up to fail?"

"Because the Marquis can do longer make money off of you. No one wants to bet against you. Ironically," Jehan gave a little laugh, "you win too much."

Athos' sense of honor came into play not allowing him to see any other fork in the road. "But if I don't win, innocent people die. How can I not try to win?"

"This is why I say you are not a common man who is only doing this for his own survival."

Athos vehemently shook his head. "That is not true. Many fight to defend others."

Jehan waxed philosophically. "Maybe at certain levels in society that is true, but where the horse's feet meets the road it is every man for himself." Taking a deep breath, he continued. "Third. I was the third son, far from inheriting and with brothers who...," he shook his head in a negative gesture, "let's say we didn't see eye to eye. So I left with what I felt was mine."

"Stole," Athos, remarked under his breath.

"What I deserved," Jehan firmly replied, "and headed out into the world, Paris to be precise. I had always been fairly skilled with a blade..."

"In a back-water, country way," Athos slid in.

"...and being the son of a noble man..."

"Third son..."

Anger had crept into Jehan's voice. "I applied to the King's Musketeers. I trained hard and fought harder..."

A sardonic smile crept onto Athos' face. "But your talents weren't recognized. You didn't rise through the ranks to the top. You didn't receive your commission."

"Exactly. I was unfairly passed over!" Jehan exclaimed as he slapped his hand on the table top.

Athos unfolded his arms, picked up the whetstone, and began working on an imaginary burr on his blade. Slowly shaking his head as he worked, he verbally cut the man, in front of him, to the bone. "There was no ill will, no duplicity in you not achieving a commission. It was simply one thing and one thing alone." Raising his head, he stared dispassionately at the man as he thrust in his verbal blade. "You...weren't...good...enough."

The sharp intake of breath told Athos his point had hit home and he continued to press his advantage on the court, determined to destroy this man who was aiding and abetting in the misery of other's. "I would have made the same decision, if I were the Captain of the Musketeers, or the King."

"What do you know of the Musketeers," the enraged man spat.

The whetstone started its path down the blade again and for what seemed like an eternity, the harsh scraping noise was the only sound in the room. Suddenly, something dawned on Jehan and it made his blood run cold. "You are one of them!"

"If by them you mean the first born son of a nobleman. And if you mean a King's Musketeer then you are correct." Athos' eyes flashed with anger as he stared over at Jehan. "As a man of honor who takes his duty to King and Country seriously, I plan to stop what is going on here and bring the Marquis to justice. You can assist, or stand idly by and be collateral damage."

Jehan couldn't believe the cool, self-assured, cockiness of the man standing in front of him. Enraged, Jehan lunged over the table knocking Athos to the floor. The trainer began punching him viciously and repeatedly on his wounded side before his sense of survival asserted itself. Jehan rolled off the gasping man and rose to his feet. If he killed this man before the fight, he had no doubts the Marquis would simply substitute him in his place.

"You! You are going to stop this," Jehan jeered at the wincing man on the floor.

Athos curled up in a ball on the ground, panting and fighting down the waves of pain wracking his body. The knife on the floor, knocked from his hand in the fall, mockingly stared at him, begging to be picked up and inserted into Jehan's chest.

Jehan stood over him gloating. "Let me tell you, Musketeer. Today in the ring, you face four challengers and not ordinary ones. These skilled men were recruited specially to kill you. The Marquis has secretly teamed up with one of his friends to fleece the rest of the nobles. The Marquis, of course, will be betting on you to win. However, secretly, through his accomplice, he is betting a larger sum of money that you will lose. And trust me you will lose."

Athos had managed to roll onto his knees before sitting back on his heels to stare up Jehan with moral umbrage.

"You are no longer profitable for my Lord. So by the end of today, you will be gone and he will be richer. Oh yes, and in a good mood as he will get to kill four servants. Our blood-thirsty Marquis has been a bit out of sorts of late, not having been able to satisfy his taste for killing."

Athos' face betrayed his deep-felt horror. "You condone his murderous actions?"

Jehan gave an indifferent shrug. "I'm not shooting them."

"And you're not stopping him!"

The trainer simply shrugged again. "I feel no remorse. And when you are cut to pieces today, and lie dying in the sands of the arena like the dog you are, I will feel no remorse either, first son and musketeer. You will have gotten what you deserved."

Jehan took a step backwards as Athos shakily rose to his feet. "You are as big a monster as he!"

"Think as you want for it makes no matter to me. Those thoughts will die with you today." With that, Jehan laughed and walked over to the gate letting himself into the dueling arena. "If you are a religious man," he said as he closed the gate behind him, "now might be a good time to beg God to have mercy on your soul."

Athos watched until Jehan was no longer in view then hobbled over to the chair in the room, sat heavily upon it, and cradled his head in his arms. He had long ago given up on entreating God for mercy. He didn't deserve it, not with the sins he had committed. However, he did owe it to the innocent people of this estate to bring an end to this madness and he vowed that is what he would do, even if it brought about his own death. He had faced great odds before and he was not afraid, and a small, almost forgotten thought crept into his mind, his brothers were here. That was cause for hope. All for one and…


	28. Chapter 28

CHAPTER 28

The day of the duel the three incognito Musketeers followed the Marquis thru the solid stone archway into the fortress. Each man eyed the walls and thought the same thing, solid. Aramis and D'Artagnan followed Lemione into the viewing stands while Porthos was relegated a spot with the other guards by the entry gate. This was fine with the big man as he was directly on the floor of the arena, had a great view of the action, and if needed he could provide assistance in a flash. Not of course that Athos would require his assistance, or say he did, but Porthos' time in the regiment taught him being prepared was never a bad thing.

Aramis was directed to the prime location at the Marquis Lemione's right hand above the other noblemen in the stands. D'Artagnan took his place with the rest of the servants in the back, but close enough to be at their master's beck and call. He adjusted the position of the dagger hidden in his sleeve; as a servant he couldn't be seen carrying the weapons of a full-blown musketeer. Still, he couldn't be totally unarmed and the dagger seemed like his best option. Aramis was allowed to carry his rapier in a ceremonial manner though not his main gauche or pistols as that might be viewed as untrusting of his host's environment. However, he had managed to hide a pistol under his long coat and felt better for it. Porthos, as the Comte de Noyen's bodyguard was the only one of the three fully-armed and he was loving it.

Aramis studied the empty arena before him noting there were two ways to enter it. At the far end was a tunnel with what he presumed was a locked, iron-barred gate. What lay beyond the gate was hidden in the shadows. The second entry point was the one they had used to access the space. If they had to make a hasty departure that gate was the only sure way out.

Aramis turned his attention on Lemione. "You keep hinting that this duel will be something special, Guillaume. Why is that?"

The Marquis stretched out his long legs like a cat, appearing very pleased with himself. "Because this is much more than a duel, my friend. A duel implies two foes, one on one."

Aramis concurred with the statement. "True. It is customary for a duel to be mano-a-mano. More than that is a battle."

It was obvious the Marquis was pleased with Aramis' analogy. "Exactly right. We are going to witness a battle here today."

As Aramis began to assemble the hints and innuendos in his head, a grim picture began to emerge. "You are setting up," Aramis almost slipped and said Athos, catching his near faux-pau at the least second, "A...your man to fight more than one man?" The Marquis' lazy smile told Aramis he had hit the nail on the head. "Why would you do that?" No sooner had the question left his lips than he knew the answer. "You want him to lose! You can't make any money off of him anymore because no one will bet against him!"

Leaning close to Aramis' ear he whispered, "You, my dear friend, understand clearly the predicament in which I find myself. And I'll let you in on another little secret. I will make more money if he loses this fight than wins it."

Aramis forced what he hoped was a look of admiration on his face, as the Marquis straightened in his chair. However internally, Aramis was reeling with the implication of this upcoming fight. Athos was being set up to die! "How many?" he asked in a voice that even surprised him with its' evenness.

The Marquis' sleaze smile grew even broader. "Four. And not run of the mill fighters. I imported these ones especially for this event."

"But how can that be? I thought you said your neighbors supplied the competition. Unless," another on target thought crossed his mind, "you are in cahoots with one of your neighbors." He tilted his head a bit to the left and gave the smug Marquis a little nod of acknowledgement. "Very clever. He is the one placing your large bet against your own man. No one can trace it back to you."

"Don't worry, Etienne. My bet is large enough to cover your losses when my man dies. I am sorry to deceive you, but you understand it was necessary," he said apologetically. "I simply can't make any money off him, so he is of no more use to me."

"Of course," you evil, low-life, excuse for a man, Aramis ranted in his mind all while smiling genially at the snake sitting next to him.

Last night Aramis had dampened Porthos and D'Artagnan's demands to immediately rescue Athos, but now he knew he had been dead wrong. They had to rescue their brother immediately because the man sitting next to him had no intention of Athos ever seeing another sunrise.

A plan began forming in his mind. "Another scorcher and once again I have forgotten my hat! Excuse me for a moment while I send my servant to fetch it."

He certainly could have called d'Artagnan to him, but he wanted to have a few words in private with the musketeer, out of Lemione's earshot. Rising, he casually strolled over to where the young man stood then pulled him away from the other servants. "Lemione intends for Athos to lose this fight and die. We are going to have to break him out of here now."

D'Artagnan kept the panic he was feeling in check. "Do you have a plan?"

Aramis eyes darted around the arena. "Not quite. But however we accomplish it, we will need our horses to escape. I have told the Marquis I'm sending you to fetch my hat. Instead, go to the stables and bring back our horses and one for Athos. Secure them very near as I fear we will be making a rather swift and unexpected departure."

The crowd suddenly grew quiet and both men suspected what that meant. The fight was about to commence.

Aramis gave D'Artagnan a little shove. "Go! Hurry!"

D'Artagnan started to move, then halted. "Should I tell Porthos what is going on?"

"There isn't time. Porthos is smarter than all of us. He will quickly catch on. Now go!"

As Aramis headed back to his seat, D'Artagnan sprinted off rushing past Porthos who eyed him with curiosity. The brawler suddenly had a gut feeling that something was wrong and a fleet glance up at Aramis, a man who moods and emotions he could read like a book, confirmed it. The rest of the world might not be able to tell, but Porthos was one hundred percent sure Aramis was worried and agitated.

Porthos didn't have any time for further speculation because he was rudely shoved aside by the four fighters entering the arena. They moved with military precision and a cursory scan of their weaponry showed it was well-made and in good condition. He watched as the four marched into the middle of the arena before coming to a halt to wait. Porthos was beginning to have an inkling on why one of his brothers was running somewhere and another was distressed; his third brother was being led to slaughter.


	29. Chapter 29

CHAPTER 29

Athos heard the crowd grow quiet and knew what it signaled; his opponents had entered the ring. After making one last check of his weapons, he stepped towards the gate waiting for Jehan to unlock it and escort him into the arena. Athos was surprised when instead a strange guard pulled open the gate and gestured for him for to proceed.

The ante-room was dark and he squinted as he walked into the bright sunshine flooding the arena. He forced his watering eyes to scan the section where the servants, who would die if he lost, were seated. There were four of them, which matched Jehan's story he would be fighting four men. One servant for each warrior he was supposed to battle. Jehan hadn't been lying and his eyes quickly whipped to the middle of the arena where a quartet of serious, well-armed fighters stood waiting to slaughter him.

His eyes scanned the hushed crowd next finding Aramis with the ease of one family member finding another in a crowd. Unable to locate D'Artagnan, he quickly spotted Porthos by the gate. The scowl on Porthos' face said it all; he was itching to be a part of this battle, which was something Athos could not afford to have happen. If he didn't win this duel, the Marquis would slay the four innocent servants. Athos was sure that any outside interference in this fight would be construed as a 'loss' even if he did manage to win. The Marquis, in his twisted mind, would then be able to slaughter the servants to slake his blood-thirsty need for murder.

Athos had to win this fight on his own merit even though according to Jehan that wasn't what the Marquis wanted either; he wanted Athos dead. But Athos couldn't let distractions cloud his mind. First things first: win the fight, save the servants and then he could worry about his own skin.

Keeping his weapons holstered, Athos moved towards where Jehan, Porthos, and the rest of the guards stood. He made sure he kept his hands partially raised in front of him indicating he had no intentions of drawing his weapons.

"Jehan." Athos stopped a few feet away from the trainer hands still in a neutral position. His eyes showed no emotion as he scanned each of the guard's faces, to include Porthos', before coming back to rest on Jehan. "I need your promise you won't interfere."

Though Athos' words were directed at Jehan, Pothos had the distinct impression they were really aimed at him.

Sneering, Jehan replied, "I wouldn't dream of it. Enjoy." Though Jehan didn't say it, Athos could hear the sub-text, 'Musketeer, and first son of the nobleman. For today you cease to be both'.

Athos' eyes shifted to Porthos again for a second. They were called the Inseparables for a good reason. An entire wordless conversation passed between the two men in that glance. Athos asked Porthos to stand down and the big guy agreed, but with conditions. If it meant standing idle while Athos was killed, all bets were off. A slight head tilt by both musketeers had the deal acknowledged though neither side was fond of the terms and conditions.

Having secured what he needed to hopefully keep the servants alive, Athos moved back towards the middle of the arena to face his four opponents. He stopped twenty paces away from the fighters.

"I don't suppose you'd be willing to concede the fight now and avoid me having to kill the four of you?" he asked in a courtly tone. The response he received was well within the bounds of what he expected and with a sigh he drew his rapier, the sword ringing in the quiet air as it cleared the scabbard.

Winning this battle was not going to be about fair fighting. The deck had already been stacked against him for this to be an honest confrontation. The only way he was winning this fight was through sheer determination, sacrifice, and down and out dirty street fighting. Athos had learned the hard way as a Musketeer that sometimes ones honor had to be tarnished a little for the greater good.

"Was that the horn?" he facetiously asked as he drew and threw his dagger into the heart of his foe on the right before lunging to slash the knee of another fighter without warning. "My mistake. There it is," Athos declared without sincerity as the horn blared.

The man prone in the dirt with the dagger in his chest would soon be ready for last rights. The second fighter, also on the ground, was alive but it was dubious if he'd ever walk again without a limp. The remaining two warriors quickly drew their weapons and put some space between them and the lone swordsman that was facing them.

As the fight raged on, it was not one of Athos' better performances and Aramis and Porthos could easily detect that fact. Athos was holding his own, but not with his usual finesse or fighting skills. Athos' mind was clearly having a hard time focusing, his body was betraying him, and his brothers feared for him.

Porthos' eyes narrowed when he detected that Athos' opponents were maneuvering the fatigued musketeer into a trap and he was torn by his promise not to interfere. By the time Athos became aware of the trap it was too late.

Athos was positioned in front of the man whose knee he had gashed at the onset of the fight. The wounded warrior raised his sword preparing to slash at Athos' right leg. The musketeer's sixth sense alerted him at the last moment and he did a shoulder roll trying to avoid the blade, which only skimmed across his leg as opposed to cutting it deeply as intended.

However, being momentarily on the ground left him vulnerable. While he should have been able to spring nimbly back to his feet after such a roll, the wound in his side made him stumble on the recovery and he wobbled sideways into the path of one of the unhurt fighters. Seeing it was too late to avoid the collision, Athos twisted to avoid the man's blade and added a bit of velocity to his fall causing both of them to tumble to the ground. Had the man had his main gauche in play it might have been the end of Athos, but he didn't and the two went down in a tangle of arms and legs, both losing their grip on their swords.

Athos swung his fist and clobbered the man in the side of the jaw, while the other man returned the favor with a swift kick to Athos' newly wounded thigh. It became obvious that whoever got to their sword first was going to be the winner of this tussle. It appeared that was going to be Athos when his searching hand found the hilt of his rapier. However, when he attempted to lift it to skewer his foe his actions were thwarted by the remaining fighter who took his dagger and slashed Athos' right forearm.

The unexpected pain nearly caused the musketeer to drop his rapier, but his title as the greatest swordsman in France held a lot of truth. His training, coupled with his survival skills and pure adrenaline, had him quickly transferring the sword to his left hand before rolling away from the thrust aimed at his neck.

This time he made it to his feet, swiftly turned and delivered a lethal stab to the man with whom he had been wrestling. Three men now lay dead or wounded on the earthen ground of the arena. Blood dripped down Athos' face from a cut he wasn't even aware of receiving. A quick swipe of his sleeve got rid of it before it obscured his vision though he knew it was only a temporary solution at best.

Athos and his remaining opponent warily circled each other and it was clearly apparent that the remaining one of the original four warriors was in better shape than Athos.

In the stands, the Marquis sighed. "Such a waste of talent. It is a shame he has to die."

Athos stumbled as a frontal assault was levied on him by his opponent, barely fending off the attack. Aramis knew his brother couldn't survive much longer. It was time to act.

Suddenly, the Marquis found a pistol pressed discreetly to his side. "No one is dying here today," Aramis hissed in his ear. "Unless it is you for doing something stupid. Here is how this is going to go down. You will walk with me down to the gate and declare this fight is over. Then my brothers and I are going to take Athos and ride away from here. You won't send anyone to follow us. Do I make myself clear?" After a pause, Aramis added, "And I'm a King's Musketeer as are my three friends to include the one you have fighting for his life in your arena. Trust me, we don't miss, and we keep our promises."

While Aramis was coercing the Marquis in the stands, Jehan reached his boiling point as he stood by the gate. This fight was not going as planned. It appeared the wrong man might win and that simply couldn't happen.

Athos' back was toward Jehan when the trainer made his charge. Reversing the handle of his dagger, he viciously clubbed Athos in the back of the head rendering the man unconscious. "Finish him!" he yelled at the fighter who was surprised to see his foe collapse in the dirt.

A mighty roar cut across the arena as Porthos burst into action. He had kept his promise to Athos not to interfere until his brother's life was in mortal danger. That time had arrived. Now, it was Athos turn to honor his promise and let Porthos save him.

Sword flashing like a speeding bullet, Porthos bowled over Jehan as he headed towards the remaining fighter who wisely seeing an angry bear rushing towards him backed off.

Porthos let him go and instead knelt on the ground next to Athos. Though he wasn't sure how badly his brother was hurt there was one thing for sure, Athos wasn't climbing to his feet anytime in the next few minutes. Scooping the lighter man up in his powerful arms, Porthos adjusted his hold to lay Athos over his left shoulder keeping his right hand free for his sword. A firm hold on Athos' belt kept him securely in place as he moved across the arena towards the exit. Porthos couldn't help Athos' head from flopping and bouncing off of his broad back as he hurried across the ring; there was no time for finesse. Perhaps it made them even for all the times Athos had rendered him unconscious with a swift punch to the jaw when Aramis needed to stitch the big man's wounds. Both were cases of having to hurt your friend to help them, Porthos reasoned.

As Porthos was making his way to the gate with the unconscious Athos, Aramis was making his way to the same place with the very conscious Marquis. People were moving out of the way when they realized Lemione was being held at gunpoint. It wasn't until Aramis reached the gate where the guards stood that he ran into resistance.

Aramis tried to reason with the guards. "Please, step aside. I really don't wish to get blood on my coat, which will assuredly happen when I pull the trigger at this range and your Lord's blood and guts splatter on me."

But it was the Marquis Lemione's direct order and not Aramis' logic that got the guards to stand down. "Move out of the way you fools!"

Thankfully at that moment, D'Artagnan materialized at the gate. "The horses are waiting."

Porthos and Athos arrived at the gate and for the first time in months, the Inseparables were united. However, there wasn't time for a family reunion as they moved forward with their escape plans.

"D'Artagnan, get everyone into the arena," Aramis instructed the younger musketeer.

D'Artagnan used his sword and pistol to encourage everyone to move to the far side of the gate.

"Good. Where is the key to the lock?" Aramis questioned the crowd. When no one seemed to have the answer he said, "Never mind." After shoving the Marquis into the arena causing the man to fall in the dirt, Aramis swiftly exited thru the gate, pulled it shut behind him, and secured the lock. He hoped the key was not the hands of someone in the arena because he was trying to buy them time to escape.

"Thanks for the hospitality, but I don't think we will be returning. Let's go," he addressed his brothers as they made their way outside and to the horses.

The Marquis and Jehan stared in frustration and hopelessness as the four musketeers escaped. This was not what was to have occurred here today. The Marquis reached over and punched Jehan in the face out of frustration.

"Let's hope it takes a while for them to find the key," Aramis prayed as he scanned the unconscious form of Athos. "We are going to need all the time we can get."

"Here. Hold him," Porthos commanded pulling Athos off his shoulder and handing him over to Aramis as if he were a child's rag doll.

Athos' limbs wouldn't support him and Aramis not having the brute strength of Porthos found it a struggle not to drop the man in the dirt. "D'Artagnan, a little assistance please."

Between the two of them, they kept the unconscious man somewhat vertical though the physician in him had Aramis wondering what sort of aggravation they were causing to Athos' injuries.

After Porthos had mounted his rangy horse, he peered down at them from the saddle. "Ok. Hand him up."

The glance that passed between Aramis and D'Artagnan could be summed up in three words... are you kidding! Porthos solved the problem by maneuvering his war horse next to the three men, bending down from his lofty perch, tightening his legs to his mount's side, and hauling Athos upward by his belt. For all the brute force he used to get the wounded man on his horse, Porthos was gentle and careful as he arranged the man in front of him before wrapping one arm securely around his midsection while the other held the reins. "Let's go!"

The other two ran for their horses, quickly mounted, and started after Porthos who had already taken off. D'Artagnan lead the fourth horse so when Athos regained consciousness and was ready to ride, he'd have a mount. The young musketeer deliberately used the word when in his mind, and not if, trying to remain positive.

For the next hour as they cantered across the rolling countryside, putting as much distance between them and the estate as possible, Aramis worried about what this might be doing to Athos. He could see some of the injuries the warrior was sporting, to include a slash on his thigh and arm, as well as the one on his side, but wondered about the hidden ones. Add to that list a probable concussion and Aramis felt like every jounce and jolt could be putting a nail in his best friend's coffin. However, if they were being pursued they need to stay ahead because a fight at this junction might be disastrous.

Aramis made a decision when he glanced over again and saw Athos' wavy, dark haired head bounce off Porthos' chest again. Reining his horse to a walk had the ripple effect intended causing them all to slow their mounts. "I realize the need to put distance between us and any pursuers, but I fear for Athos' well-being."

Somberly, the Musketeer's gazed at the unconscious man being supported in the front of Porthos' saddle.

"I suggest that Athos and I continue onward at a walk, while you two go back and check for signs of pursuit. Porthos can switch to the spare horse which is fresher since Flip has been carrying a double load."

The silent exchange between d'Artagnan and Porthos showed they weren't happy with the idea, but had no better counter offer. "What about Athos? He can't ride," d'Artagnan asked.

"I suppose we can tie him to Flip like a sack of potatoes." The slight curve of his lips showed he wasn't serious, simply trying to lighten a dark mood. "But, I fear we would hear about that for the rest of our lives. No, it is my turn to bear my brother."

Maneuvering his horse close to Porthos', a team effort was undertaken to switch the unresponsive man to Aramis' horse. It was not an easy feat, but they pulled it off without dropping him. That too, would have been hard to explain when Athos finally woke.

Porthos changed horses to the one they had appropriated for Athos' use before handing off the reins of Flip to Aramis. With a little salute, the two Musketeers' wheeled their steeds about and headed back towards the estate to deal with any pursuers.

Aramis clicked to his stallion to start to walk and the horse flicked his ears in a disagreeable fashion letting his owner know he wasn't happy with this new arrangement. There was more weight on his back then normal and Flip was crowding him. Aramis patted the Spanish stallion on the neck by way of apology, but firmly insisted that he obey. With a snort, the horse moved forward and Aramis attempted to settle Athos a bit more securely in front of him, not an easy task considering the saddle wasn't built for two. Normally when riding tandem the second person sat behind the cantle.

It was about an hour later, when he heard the sound of approaching hooves and he stopped his stallion turning him to face the sound. Awkwardly drawing his harquebus, he held it at ready in case the guests weren't friendly. He didn't realize he was holding his breath until he saw D'Artagnan appear with Porthos close behind. He exhaled in relief. The two drew to a halt alongside of Aramis their eyes seeking out Athos first and then shifting to the gun, which was still pointed at them.

"Maybe you want to aim that in another direction?" Porthos mildly suggested.

Aramis gave them a smile. "Why? Are you going to give me bad news? If so, maybe it is correctly aimed."

"All good news!" D'Artagnan assured him as Aramis placed his harquebus back in its holder. "There is no sign of pursuit. We went all the way back to the edge of the woods by the prison and saw nothing."

"Perhaps they are still trapped behind the locked gate?" Aramis jokingly suggested.

Porthos shook his head no. "Nah, we saw people moving about just not after us. Guess we left a lasting impression. How's he?" The dark brown eyes were filled with concern as he gazed on the limp form of his brother.

Aramis' frustration became apparent as he adjusted his grip on Athos. "I was really hoping he would have regained consciousness by now. It has me a bit concerned."

All three men knew that was a gross under-exaggeration. Aramis was gravely concerned.

"If you are sure there is no sign of pursuit, I would like to set up camp and tend to his wounds while there is still light. There is a stream a few minutes back. That would be a good spot." Aramis glanced between his companions for concurrence, which he received.

The two turned their horses to follow Aramis who had headed his mount towards the stream. Once they reached the stream's banks, they found a relatively flat, dry, parcel to set up camp. D'Artagnan dismounted first, grabbed Porthos' cloak, and spread it on the ground as a makeshift bed. Porthos was off his mount next, and he walked over to Aramis who gently lowered Athos into his waiting arms. Porthos cradled Athos as carefully as if he were a new born babe, carrying him over to the blue cloak and gently laying him upon it.

Aramis was the last to dismount and once on the ground he rummaged thru his packs for his medical supplies. He began issuing orders for Porthos to gather wood, start a fire, and boil water, while D'Artagnan was instructed to take care of the horses.

While the other two went about their assignments, Aramis moved over to Athos laying his medical supplies on the corner of the cloak, but not unpacking them yet. First, he needed to see what he was dealing with and then choose the right tools.

Apologizing, even though he doubted Athos could hear him, he stripped the man down to his smalls. Luckily, it was warm and no chill would be taken by this act. Once his patient was nearly naked, he ran a practiced eye over the unconscious form. The blood-soaked bandage that surrounded his torso from the previous day's wound would definitely need to be soaked to get it off. The thigh and the forearm gashes were a bit more than a graze, though he wasn't sure if either truly required stitching. Wanting to examine the wound he knew Athos sustained on the back of his head, he slowly rolled the man over and then gasped. It wasn't the newest wound that surprised and momentarily took his breath away, but the healed scars from an older injury. Sometime during his captivity, Athos had been repeatedly beaten with a whip!

Porthos, who had the fire started and a pot of water rigged on it, heard Aramis' gasp and when he glanced over at the man and saw his ridged posture, he stood up and ambled over. "What's the matter?" but he answered his own question when he saw the marks on Athos' fair-skinned back. "He was whipped!"

D'Artagnan, who had completed staking out the last horse, saw his two brethren intently staring at Athos and his stomach did a slow roll as he hurried over to them. "What's wrong?"

Porthos voice shook with fury. "Someone whipped Athos. Like he was a beast."


	30. Chapter 30

A weak voice rose from the ground. "Gentlemen, I feel rather… umm… exposed and your staring is not helping the situation," Athos dryly remarked over his shoulder.

Smiles of relief lit the faces of the three men. "You're awake," D'Artagnan said with a sigh of satisfaction.

"Enough to know I'm being rudely stared upon in my smalls. If you wouldn't mind," he replied much more in the manner of a command, than a request. When his companions didn't avert their eyes fast enough for his taste, he began to struggle to roll over.

Aramis reached out his hand, placed it gently on Athos' shoulder blade, and stopped him from moving. "Not so fast, my modest friend. I need to examine this wound," he instructed, as he remained kneeling alongside of Athos. Porthos and D'Artagnan rose and moved a few steps away finally averting their gazes as requested.

"It's just a scratch. I'd really like to have all my clothes back now, please." Athos scanned the immediate vicinity failing to spot his breeches. "Tell me you haven't lost my clothes. I'm rather fond of those pants."

"Your clothes will be returned when I'm done patching you up. It isn't cold. You won't freeze." Aramis' long, elegant fingers skimmed over a gash on Athos' lower back. "Porthos, would you bring the rags and water."

Athos momentarily gave up on his idea of moving and lay quietly on the cloak. "Whose cloak is this?"

"Mine," Porthos acknowledged as he carried the hot water over to Aramis' side. "Why?"

As dry as a piece of toast, Athos replied, "I fear I may have bled on it."

"That's ok. It won't be the first time you have bled on something that belonged to me. And," Porthos muttered under his breath, "it probably won't be the last."

Porthos moved to sit on the ground near the injured man's head. "Aramis, are you planning to stitch that wound?"

D'Artagnan was rinsing out the rags and handing them back to Aramis who was cleaning the blood away to examine the injury. When the field of inquiry was finally clear enough, he meticulously studied the gash before declaring, "I don't think this requires any of my fine needlework. Roll over please," Aramis instructed Athos who struggled to flip over and not aggravate any injured body part.

When Athos insisted on sitting upright, Aramis didn't dissuade him. Instead, he motioned for the curly haired man to support his brother and Porthos gently leaned Athos' back against his body being careful of all his wounds.

"Would you like a drink before I get started?" Aramis asked as he rose to walk over to where the horses were hobbled. He only asked out of politeness already knowing the response he would receive from Athos.

"Wine, yes. Water, no," was the succinct reply from the former Comte.

Aramis laughed as he dug around in his saddle bags. It felt good to laugh, something that had been missing from their repertoire the last few months. Returning to Athos' side, Aramis squatted and held out a mug of wine. "I can't vouch for the vintage."

Athos, who was definitely feeling pain, reached out with his left arm and gratefully accepted the cup. Before Aramis could warn him to drink slowly, he gulped it down.

Athos held out the empty cup in a pleading manner, but Aramis resolutely shook his head no. "One will be sufficient."

Athos was opening his mouth to protest when instead he found his eyes growing heavy. "You dr...," was all he got out before his eyes drifted closed and his head lolled against Porthos' chest.

"Drugged you, yes," Aramis finished Athos' sentence even though the inquirer was no longer conscious.

With D'Artagnan's assistance, Aramis cleaned the newest wounds then soaked the bandage on the older wound and pried it loose. Unfortunately, it became apparent he was hurting the musketeer as a solitary tear escaped from under the unconscious man's dark lashes and trickled forlornly down his cheek. Porthos soothingly smoothed Athos unruly hair muttering words of comfort, while Aramis doggedly went about his doctoring.

It felt like an eternity, but in reality was little more than a half an hour when Aramis declared his work done and a newly bandaged Athos was circumspectly laid to rest on the blue cloak after his clothes were restored.

While Athos slept, the others made and consumed dinner as the sun lowered itself into the horizon. They were all tired and as soon as it grew dark, they made up the watch rotation, which was D'Artagnan, Aramis, and lastly Porthos. Aramis assured his brethren Athos would sleep peacefully though out the night, but as usual when predicting what Athos would do, he was wrong.


	31. Chapter 31

CHAPTER 31

Waking with a start, it took Athos a few minutes to piece together what had happened and where he was laying. A lot was still hazy, but he knew for sure he was supposed to die in that arena and once again his brothers had saved him. However, there in lay the problem that was now gnawing at his soul.

Athos played possum listening to the changing of the watch from Aramis to Porthos, which was about two-thirds of the way through the night. He felt more than saw Aramis come over and check on him before moving away to lie down and go to sleep. As he didn't want Aramis to know he was awake, Athos kept his breathing deep and even long after he thought Aramis had drifted off to sleep.

With Aramis and D'Artagnan asleep that only left Porthos blocking his escape, but that wouldn't deter him. Earlier, as he had been drifting in and out of consciousness, he had heard the three men talking and was dismayed to learn the Marquis Lemione was still alive and walking free. That was a simply intolerable situation and Athos felt the need to remedy it immediately.

However, he had to seek his justice against Lemione in a clever fashion. Athos was certain if he declared he was riding back to the estate to arrest the Marquis his brothers wouldn't bother using drugs to knock him out this time. Porthos, fully sanctioned by the other two, would simply render him unconsciousness with a single punch from his mighty fist. Subterfuge was the only way justice would be served upon the Marquis.

In preparation of trying to stand, Athos gingerly stretched his muscles and was rewarded with a thousand aches and pains making themselves known. Stifling the groan he would have liked to express, he bit down on his lower lip and for motivation thought about what the deranged Marquis would do to his servants. No telling how many might suffer in his cruel games. That was enough to make Athos push thru the pain and make his reluctant limbs obey.

The good thing about working, eating, drinking, and sleeping with someone for five years is you get to know a lot about him. There had been many times due to his demons when Athos was unable or unwilling to sleep. During those occasions when they were camping out and Porthos was on watch, Athos had ample time to learn the man's habits. Sitting still wasn't Porthos' strong suit so he often cleaned his weapons, played with a deck of cards, or simply fidgeted. Another thing he did was circle the camp three times during his watch and peer down at his sleeping companions. Neither of these habits really helped with Athos' escape plans, but the next one he thought about was a winner.

There wasn't always a lot of privacy with the lifestyle they led and considering how many times they had to patch each other up, modesty had long since flown out the window. They had all been in situations where they were seriously injured and bodily functions had required some assistance from their fellow brothers. While it certainly wasn't a comfortable situation, for either party, it was a necessary evil.

In spite of that, Porthos still maintained a high degree of modesty when not incapacitated, preferring to take care of a nature's needs privately, in the wee hours of the morning, before anyone woke. This habit was why Porthos always volunteered to take the last watch of the night Athos had concluded. And it was this habit that Athos was counting on to allow him to slip out of camp without anyone being the wiser.

Sure enough, an hour before sunrise Porthos put away the deck of cards he had been fiddling with, stretched his long limbs as he rose, then headed off into the woods. Athos waited until the sound of the footsteps faded before forcing his own rebellious body into an upright position. He took a few tenuous, wobbling steps before throwing an arm out to a nearby tree to support his body and keep it from tumbling to the ground. The pain caused by the jolting of his injured arm helped focus his mind on the task at hand.

Pushing off the tree trunk, he cautiously crept over the uneven forest floor to where the horses were staked out. He was fortunate that D'Artagnan had decided not to unsaddled the beasts, but only loosen their girths in case they had to make a hasty retreat in the night. His brethren were going to be irritated when they woke and found him gone. So instead of adding to their distress by taking one of their mounts, he unhitched and lead away the horse they had borrowed for him.

His luck was holding as he silently walked the steed out of the camp and was well away before Porthos had returned from his call of nature. When he figured he was distant enough from the camp, he tossed the reins over the horse's head and thought to mount when it dawned on him he had to tighten the girth if he didn't want to end up on his ass on the forest floor.

Gritting his teeth, he gave the stallion a swift slap on the belly before grabbing the leather strap with his good hand and cinching it tight. The horse let out a small unhappy snort, but otherwise behaved.

The next obstacle was mounting, which was a challenge since his thigh was sporting a wound. Not knowing anything about this horse's temperament, training, or tolerance he felt an unconventional mount from the offside was too risky. Had it been his faithful mount Roger he might have attempted it, but with a strange horse it was a stupid idea. It really wouldn't look good to break his neck within a few hundred feet of the camp while trying to escape.

Once again marshaling his will, he placed his foot in the stirrup, grasped the pommel with his good arm, and hauled his body up and onto the stallion. His leg screamed with pain and he landed in the saddle with a very ungraceful plop and the horse flicked his black-tipped ears in annoyance. Reaching forward, Athos gave an apologetic scratch under the horse's mane before gathering up the reins and heading off into the night towards the Marquis' estate.

It was still very dark when Porthos finished his business and walked back to the camp. His eyes swept the perimeter and saw nothing amiss. He didn't look within the camp's border because he wasn't expecting an attack from that quarter. So Athos' escape went unnoticed for a bit longer. Sitting and settling his broad back against a tree trunk, he pulled a deck of cards out of his pouch to pass the time until his brethren awoke.

Aramis was surprised upon opening his eyes to find it was fully light out. He had slept a lot sounder and longer than he had intended and felt a little guilty about not having checked on his patient. It didn't take him long upon rising to see the cloak where Athos had been sleeping was empty. In a panic, his concerned eyes swept the camp. "Where is he!"

Startled by Aramis' outburst, Porthos swiftly got up and hurried to where the agitated Aramis stood. Looking down he too noticed the empty cloak. "Hey. What did you do with Athos?"

"Me? You were the one on guard!" Aramis shot back.

"But I was watching for enemies sneaking in. Not for people sneaking out," Porthos weakly defended his position.

By this time, D'Artagnan had woken up and ran a hand through his tousled hair as he wandered over to where the two older Musketeers stood staring down at the empty cloak. "Where's Athos?"

"He ran away" and "Porthos let him escape" were the simultaneous answers.

D'Artagnan stood slightly bemused, while the other two argued over whose fault it was that Athos had disappeared. After a while, he broke into the argument. "How far could he have gotten? He was pretty banged up."

That statement turned their glares into mirthless laughter. "This is Athos we are talking about. Once he was injured so bad he couldn't stay in the saddle so he had someone tie him to his beast, slap his horse's butt, and send him on his way."

"Good old Roger," Aramis reminisced. "He brought Athos safely home to the Garrison."

"Well he ain't riding Roger now, is he," Porthos pointed out and their gazes shifted to where the horses were tethered. "At least he had the decency not to take our mounts."

"He is a man of honor," Aramis replied in a lofty, but sarcastic manner.

"Nothing honorable about sneaking away when you're injured, in the middle of the night, to get yourself killed. If anyone is gonna kill him it is gonna be me," the aggravated musketeer grumbled.

D'Artagnan joined in the conversation again. "Where do you think he went?"

Aramis sighed loudly as he bent over to retrieve the blood-stained cloak upon which their missing companion had lain. "Back to the Marquis' estate would be my guess. But we won't find out standing around here. Pack up and mount up. We have a fugitive to hunt down."

Within a quarter of an hour, they were mounted and easily tracking where Athos had gone.

"Next time, I triple the drugs and tie him to a tree." Aramis kicked his horse into a canter and the other two followed suit in pursuit of their missing musketeer.


	32. Chapter 32

CHAPTER 32

As Aramis, Porthos, and D'Artagnan crested a small rise an interesting sight greeted their eyes. It almost seemed idyllic though in their guts the soldiers knew it too good to be true. The horse that Athos had appropriated was happily grazing on the thick, lush, green grass that carpeted the meadow. Sitting nearby on the ground, leaning against a gnarled tree truck was Athos. The expression on the animal's face was pure contentment. The one on the man's face was pure annoyance.

Aramis drew his horse up, swung his leg over the front of his saddle, and lightly dropped to the ground. As swift as he was, D'Artagnan still beat him to where the lone musketeer appeared to be resting against the tree with his head bowed. "Athos! Are you ok?" the youngest cried out with concern.

Aramis and Porthos joined him and after a cursory scan of the sitting man and noting the way he was holding his body, they began to laugh. That got a reaction out of Athos who raised his head to offer them one of his fierce scowls, which only made them laugh harder.

D'Artagnan stared at the men in astonishment not getting the subtext. "What is going on?" he demanded of the two laughing hyenas and the one grouchy bear.

"That horse," Athos' exasperated eyes darted to the animal in question that was lazily standing in the sunshine, back, left, hoof cocked and ears hanging slackly, "is ill-mannered." He glowered at the horse as if he could wipe the animal from the face of the earth solely with the power of his concentration.

After wiping the tears from his cheeks, Aramis closed the distance between he and Athos and reached out his hand to pat the man on the left shoulder.

Athos' immediately refocused his attention on Aramis "Don't," he growled threateningly which made Aramis' hand stop, but the laughter restart.

D'Artagnan, hands on his hips, complained, "I'm still not getting the joke. Even I can see that Athos is hurt," he gestured towards his mentor. "And you are laughing?"

"I'm not laughing at the fact that he is injured," Aramis good-naturedly explained as he walked around to the right side of Athos and slapped that shoulder.

"I'm going to hurt you," Athos warned in a deep growl giving Aramis the evil-eye, which the musketeer blatantly ignored much like the horse.

"Highly unlikley," Aramis chided Athos who was trying to appear tough even though the lines of pain around his eyes were spoiling the effect.

Instantaneously, a huge smile spread across Porthos' face as he cracked his knuckles and addressed Athos. "I'm gonna hurt you."

"Stupid horse," the injured man mumbled again, which elicited yet another amused snort from the tall musketeer.

"Now Athos," Aramis scolded as he squatted down next to the man on the ground and carefully moved his hands towards the injured man's left shoulder. "You really aren't going to blame the horse are you?" As he reached out examine the shoulder, Athos, in an act of self-preservation, leaned away. "Athos," Aramis admonished, but with compassion. "You know I have to check it. I'll be gentle."

"But I won't," Porthos gleefully added rubbing his calloused hands together in anticipation.

Athos narrowed his apprehensive eyes as he switched his gaze to Porthos.

Porthos was on a roll. "It's gonna hurt...a lot. What you deserve for sneaking out in the middle of the night..."

"It was hardly the middle of the night," Athos grouchily corrected.

"...and scaring us half-to-death," Porthos concluded.

Athos had the decency to appear somewhat contrite at that statement before trying to defend his action. "I didn't think you'd agree to let me go." He had to clamp down on his lip to stifle a moan as Aramis' fingers explored his shoulder region.

With a satisfied nod, Aramis stood. "You might have tried asking us."

"I'll keep that in mind next time," Athos drily remarked before he bowed his head again to take a few steadying breaths as he worked to get the pain under control.

"Next time," Aramis congenially agreed. "He's all yours Porthos."

As Porthos moved next to Athos, D'Artagnan reached his frustration point. "Would someone please explain what is going on here?"

Though his head was bowed, there was no doubt that from under his shaggy hair, which was covering his eyes, Athos was glaring at the horse again as he muttered, "Stupid horse."

"Stop picking on the horse, Athos. There was indeed stupidity, but not on the part of the horse," Aramis lectured him.

"So your horse threw you?" D'Artagnan asked ignoring the other two Musketeers in hopes of getting a straight answer out of the third.

Athos raised his head appearing pious and was about to speak when Aramis cut him off with a warning. "Don't...you...dare!"

The fake impression of innocence quickly dropped from Athos' face and it settled back into a mask of discord. Scowling, he bent his head to stare at the ground again.

Porthos finally took pity on the boy. "Athos is mad at the horse because when the idiot here," he reached out and gently slapped the bowed mass of dark waves causing Athos to raise his head, his eyes flashing a warning, "started to faint his horse didn't immediately stop moving."

"Like Roger," Aramis helpfully added, though in D'Artagnan's mind it wasn't all that helpful. Seeing the boy's confusion was growing not abating, Aramis sighed and offered true clarification this time. "This is not the first time our stubborn, pig-headed friend..."

"I'm sitting right here. I can hear you."

"...has tried to ride when he was unfit. And this is not the first time he has dislocated his shoulder by falling from a horse..."

"Stupid animal."

"...when he was unfit to ride." Aramis squatted on the ground again on Athos' right side. "I think the first time was shortly after he joined the regiment. We had nearly finished up a lovely fight..."

"Ten of them, three of us," Porthos reminisced fondly. "We won."

"...when one very large bandit..."

"...made LeBarge look like a dwarf," Porthos interjected.

"...decided to take on Athos."

Porthos shook his head sadly as he gazed down at Athos. "I told you to leave him to me."

In that dry monotone that Athos had perfected, he replied. "You were busy. I was available."

"The bandit mopped the floor with Athos, though in his defense none of us could have bested this guy." Aramis sympathetically patted Athos on his uninjured side.

"I could have." After Aramis and Athos gave him a 'get real look', Porthos added, "You don't know. I might have."

"Anyway," Aramis continued, "Athos insisted he was fit to ride..."

Porthos mournfully shook his head. "He wasn't."

"And on the way back to the Garrison he swooned, fell off Roger, and dislocated his left shoulder."

The slight head tilt and the annoyed glare directed at Aramis, by Athos, had the romantic musketeer making a slight edit. "On the way back to the Garrison overcome by his horrific injuries and no longer able to fight off the impending darkness, he lapsed into unconscious and tumbled onto the cold, hard, ground."

"Much better," and "I liked swoon" were the two comments again simultaneously delivered by Athos and Porthos.

Aramis continued on with his narrative. "Athos was laid up for a while from his injuries and as usual wasn't being a very cooperative patient. He kept pushing too hard, too fast, so Treville sent us on a little holiday. A cabin near a stream. Very relaxing."

"Very boring, as I recall," Porthos amended.

Aramis shrugged. "God knows why..."

"Cause he was bored," Porthos supplied.

"Athos insisted on going for daily rides, but his balance wasn't what it should be and twice he fell..."

"Dismounted..." Athos amended, which earned him an eye roll.

"...from Roger's back. Roger, being smarter than his rider, decided he had enough of this nonsense and the next time he felt Athos slipping from the saddle, he stopped and stood still allowing Athos to slide to the ground in a much less hazardous manner."

Porthos raised his right hand. "One time I swear I saw Roger practically kneel on the ground."

D'Artagnan appeared very skeptical knowing how hard it is for a horse to kneel.

FAramis just shrugged. "As I said, Roger is a very smart horse. At any rate, whenever Roger feels Athos slipping from the saddle, he comes to a stop and saves Athos from seriously injuring himself."

"How does Roger know that Athos is about to fall off?" The youngest Musketeer wasn't buying into this story.

"I told you, he is smart," Aramis replied, adopting the face of a Saint.

Athos raised his head, which had been bowed the whole time and sighed. "I taught him. A signal. Horses are quite trainable."

"Unlike their owners," Porhtos added with a grin

D'Artagnan was amazed. "You taught Roger to stop when you faint?"

"It seemed, prudent," Athos replied with a little blasé shrug.

"Like he taught him to knock people over, sometimes into streams." Porthos glanced meaningfully at Aramis who frowned.

"That was a secret, Porthos," Athos rebuked the musketeer.

Porthos looked apologetic. "Sorry."

"Wait. So that was true?" Aramis was quite indignant. "You deliberately had Roger push me in that icy, cold stream?"

Now it was Athos' turn to tap-dance. "Maybe. But could we please focus on the task at hand," he suggested giving his shoulder a meaningful glance.

Aramis waved Porthos to take up his position by the injured side. "Quite right. Before the swelling gets any worse and it is hard to get back in place."

"Is there anything I can do to help?" D'Artagnan asked as he watched the two men take up their respective positions.

Again, he got two replies. "Pray" and "Cover your ears."

The second suggestion from Porthos was the more accurate one. Aramis steadied Athos' good side, while Porthos maneuvered Athos' dislocated shoulder joint back into place. The injured man let out a scream that nearly rivaled Porthos' when he was injured.

"Impressive," Aramis remarked, as he slowly lowered the now unconscious man gently to the ground. "Didn't think he had it in him to be that vocal."

Athos wasn't out for long and when he came around Porthos helped him back into a sitting position leaning against the tree, while Aramis held out a water skin to him. The wariness on Athos' face had Aramis assuring the injured man it was simply water and nothing more.

Gratefully, Athos accepted the water and quenched his parched throat. While he was doing that D'Artagnan wandered over to where the horse was half-asleep in the sun, gathered the reins, and led the animal to where the rest of the horses patiently waited. "I don't think you are stupid," he sympathetically whispered to the animal as he gave him a rub on the nose.

After wiping a bit of water on the back of his neck, Athos handed the container to Aramis, gathered his strength, and struggled to rise. It was an interesting challenge as his right forearm had the painful gash on it, his left shoulder was still sore from the dislocation, and his thigh, sporting the other slash, wasn't very pleased about having to do any heavy lifting. Compassionately, Porthos started to assist but a nearly imperceptible head shake from Aramis made him stop. Aramis wanted his stubborn friend to struggle on his own, hoping it would knock some sense into the man who didn't seem to understand his body was injured.

Athos wasn't stupid and he got that Aramis was sending a message, but his default stoic and independent nature also made him stubborn. He bit down on his lower lip and fought his way to his feet without needing assistance, other than the tree, which he had to place a quick hand against for a bit of support. It took a few moments after he was vertical for him to get his balance, but eventually he was able to stand solidly without swaying in the breeze.

Being stubborn, stoic and a bit of a closet bad-ass, Athos was unable to resist throwing a smirk in Aramis' direction causing the man to sigh. So much for lessons learned.

The jovial Porthos laughed before walking over to where D'Artagnan stood with the horses. "So what now? I'm supposing we're going back to pay our respects to Marquis Lemione?"

They turned and gazed across the fields to the manner house, which was visible on the horizon.

"Why," Aramis questioned, "is it so urgent to go back immediately? It would be better to get you well, and then go back and visit the King's justice upon our dear Marquis."

Athos' eyes grew dark with emotion as he thought about the innocent servants that the Marquis killed for pleasure. If they waited to remedy the situation how many more would die? It suddenly dawned on him that his companions didn't know what was really going on behind the scenes and he knew, once he enlightened them, they would be as anxious as he to fix the situation. As he opened his mouth to explain, the sound of a musket shot broke the near silence of the morning.


	33. Chapter 33

CHAPTER 33

Athos realized a horrible fact: he didn't know the fate of the four servants who were slated to die if he lost the fight. However, the gun shot that was reverberating through the forest was a pretty significant clue. It wasn't hard to imagine that the Marquis, after yesterday's fiasco, might not have had time for his 'pleasure sport'. It was very plausible he was indulging in his sick games this morning.

Once again neglecting his own well-being, Athos yelled "No!" as he bolted for his horse. He ripped the reins from a surprised d'Artagnan's hand. With dexterity that shocked his fellow Musketeers, he mounted and galloped across the meadow towards the mansion.

"What the...," Aramis started to say while Porthos, always a man of action, simply ran for his own horse, mounted, and took off after Athos.

Aramis glanced over at D'Artagnan. "I guess it is a good thing I didn't waste any time stitching his wounds. It uncertainly would have all been ripped asunder by now." But this was not the time for extended witty repertoire and the two men ran for their own mounts to chase after their companions.

Desperately trying to remember the location of the glen where the Marquis had his torture center set up, Athos anxiously scanned the tree line. Riding past the house and stables, he steered his horse towards the prison, figuring he could use that as a reference point to jog his memory. Finally, he thought he recognized the correct place and jerked his horse's head to the left, entering into the forest. Athos cringed as a second shot rang out and he urged his mount even faster, weaving recklessly thru the trees.

Porthos was about eight horse lengths behind and the other two a bit further. All three wisely slowed to a heedful pace, not willing to risk injuring their trusty steeds as they penetrated the woods. However, when the second shot sounded they threw caution to the wind and upped their pace.

Riding into the glen, Athos saw the Marquis reloading his gun, while Jehan took the body of a dead woman off the wooden posts where she had been secured before being murdered. A primeval scream echoed thru the forest as Athos rode into the open area then flung his body from his mount's back onto the Marquis. The two men went down in a tangle and the gun the Marquis had been loading skittered off to one side.

Surprise was on Athos' side, which helped considering his diminished physical condition. Having no weapons on him, a stupid mistake, Athos was forced to use his bare fists. The Marquis was wearing his rapier, but was unable to draw it. However, he was able to get a hold of his short dagger and he made an ineffectual swipe at Athos who easily avoided it.

The two men were wrestling for control of the dagger when Porthos entered the area. He leapt from Flip's back and was heading for the fighting men until he spotted Jehan, sword drawn, heading for Athos' exposed back.

"No, you don't!" Porthos roared as he drew his own sword and charged at the man. The two entered into a spirited duel, while Athos and his foe continued their fist fight.

Athos had intended that the Marquis should be brought to justice in front of the King and hung by the neck until dead. But when he suddenly found the knife in his hand and knowing his body was on the verge of collapse, he plunged it into the cruel man's chest. Letting go of the hilt, he wrapped his bare hands around the barbarous Marquis' neck and proceeded to bang the man's head against the solid ground. Caught up in his own mind, Athos continued to slam Lemione's skull viciously into the dirt long past the point where the light of life had left the man's eyes.

Aramis and D'Artagnan arrived in the glen, dismounted, and moved to help their brethren. The youngest musketeer headed for Porthos, who finally dispatched his opponent with a thrust to the neck. Jehan collapsed to the ground never to rise again.

Aramis headed for Athos and cringed as his brother-in-arms continued his gruesome pounding.

"Athos! Stop!"

But it had no effect on Athos, who was beyond knowing what he was doing. Aramis grabbed him by the bicep and tried to get him to let go.

"Athos! Athos! He is dead!"

Seeing his words were having no effect, Aramis resorted to using brute force to haul Athos away from the dead body. It was neither an easy nor pleasant task as his brother fought him trying to break free.

Seeing Aramis struggling, Porthos and d'Artagnan hurried over to assist. With an elbow to Aramis' face, Athos broke free and headed for the dead man again. Porthos intercepted him, coming up from behind and wrapping his big, powerful arms around the smaller man's chest. Athos' mind may have been caught in an endless loop of torture, but his muscle memory and fight instinct remained intact. He instinctively used the dirty tricks taught to him by Porthos to try to escape. A particularly nasty kick to Porthos' knee caps had the two men falling backwards, Athos landing on the larger man's chest driving the wind from both of their lungs.

In the momentary lull that occurred, Aramis and d'Artagnan moved in to assist. The younger secured Athos' legs by firmly gripping his calves, while the older placed a hand on Athos' upper chest. Porthos recovered first, sat up, and brought Athos along with him, keeping his long arms tightly wrapped around the other's man chest.

Athos face registered bewilderment as he gulped in air, while trying to figure out what was going on and why he couldn't move. Once it sunk in that his three brothers were holding him down, and not strangers, his body relaxed. His green eyes swept d'Artagnan at his feet, and Aramis at his chest and though he couldn't see anything but Porthos' arms encircling his chest, he knew it was him simply by the invisible bond between the three of them.

Taking a deep breath, Athos closed his tired eyes letting his head loll against Porthos' comforting, leather-clad chest. However, as soon as his eyes shut the body of the dead servant boy, hanging on the wooden post, painted itself on the inside of his eyelids accusing him of murder. His eyes flew open and he began to struggle anew, anxiously scanning the vicinity. Wildly searching, his eyes landed on the dead Marquis. "I killed him," he gasped. His tone was full of horror and anguish, though he wasn't seeing the dead Marquis, but the dead servant boy who had been killed because the musketeer had refused to fight.

Aramis tracked to where Athos was staring and tried to reassure the man that he had done no wrong. "You served justice, Athos. He deserved to die." Aramis was still a bit dismayed by how brutally Athos had beaten the Marquis even after he was dead. But he wrote it off as shock and confusion in Athos' mind from the trauma his body and soul had endured over the last months.

The restrained musketeer began muttering and thrashing again, causing Porthos to tighten his hold as did D'Artagnan, while Aramis tried verbally to sooth his friend's tortured mind. The tumultuous appearance of Athos' eyes told Aramis he wasn't getting through to the frazzled man, so he reached out and placed his hands on either side of Athos' bearded face and forced the musketeer to look at him.

His tone was firm, but sympathetic. "Athos. You did what had to be done. Justice was served."

Moaning, Athos attempted to pull his head free from Aramis' hold, but he couldn't. "I killed him. Murder. I wouldn't fight. So many in the crack."

Athos' mind kept hamster wheeling the last few months. Because of him five innocent servants died: the boy, and the four that died here today. Because he wouldn't fight. Because he left. It was squarely on his conscience, his soul that they died.

Aramis didn't know how to get through to the man, so he simply leaned forward and rested his forehead against Athos' sweat stained one. "You are a good man, my brother."

Gently moving his hands to the back of Athos' neck, Aramis pulled his brother's disheveled head into his chest, resting his chin on the damp waves of brown hair. Muttering nonsensical platitudes, he massaged the back of Athos' neck.

At first, Athos remained tense and combative, but gradually the fight drained out of him to be replaced by heart-wrenching sobs. Aramis simply held him tighter and let him have his grief, not condemning or judging. D'Artagnan released his grip on Athos' legs and Porthos also loosened his hold to be supportive rather than restrictive.

Aramis felt when Athos' body finally wore out from sheer exhaustion and drifted off into unconsciousness. "Porthos, would you carry him to the edge of the glen while d'Artagnan and I finish up here," he requested as he raised his head, his eyes betraying his concern.

Porthos nodded as he gracefully rose from the ground. The strong musketeer gently scooped up the prone body of his brother and tenderly carried him away. The other two musketeers watched in silence before Aramis sighed, turned, and surveyed their surroundings. Four dead bodies lay on the ground around them: the Marquis, Jehan, a woman and a man neither man recognized. Walking over to examine the bodies, Aramis noted the two strangers had bullet holes thru their skulls, the obvious cause of death.

D'Artagnan, who had been exploring the perimeter, noticed tracks that lead off into the woods as if something or somebody had been dragged away. He followed the skid marks, while Aramis visited each of the dead bodies and prayed for their souls. The marks lead to an outcropping of rocks, towards what appeared to be a fissure, then disappeared.

"D'Artagnan?" Aramis called out when he scanned the area and didn't see the younger man.

"Over here."

Aramis followed the sound of the boy's voice and found him standing by a grouping of rocks. "Do you smell something rather unpleasant?" d'Artagnan questioned as Aramis came into view.

Being a solider and a part-time physician, Aramis immediately recognized the slightly cloying, slightly putrid, odor.

D'Artagnan pointed towards rocks. "It seems to be coming from that fissure in the rock."

"Don't!" Aramis shouted as d'Artagnan tried to peer into the opening. The tone of his voice made the boy immediately stop and look at him questioningly.

"Make a torch, would you?" Aramis asked as he stepped closer to the dark hole. If that smell was any indication of what was in that fissure, Aramis hoped to spare the boy. Aramis had been witness to the aftermath of battle more times than he cared to remember. While he knew death wasn't unfamiliar to d'Artagnan, Aramis' gut said what was in that hole was entirely in another realm.

It didn't take d'Artagnan long to fashion a torch, light it, and hand it off to Aramis who thanked him politely before indicating he should back away. Not understanding what was going on but willing to trust his fellow musketeer, d'Artagnan did as indicted and stood back as Aramis approached the dark crack with his torch held aloft.

The stench grew stronger the closer he got and he found he was holding his breath by the time he wedged his body into the opening. The ground immediately disappeared and Aramis realized he was staring down into a fairly sizable hole. As he shoved the torch forward with his right hand to light the area, he realized hole was not the right word. It was a massive grave. Dozens of bodies littered the floor in various states of decomposition and even though it was what he expected, his stomach still lurched and he was forced quickly to withdraw so as not to throw up on the already desecrated bodies. Flinging the torch aside, he staggered a few steps before dropping to his knees and emptying the contents of his stomach in the dirt.

"Aramis!" d'Artagnan gulped as he ran to the heaving man's side. "What is it?" The boy made as if to head for the fissure and Aramis reached out a shaking hand to stop him.

"Don't!" Again, the young musketeer obeyed.

When he was done vomiting, Aramis wiped his mouth as he shakily climbed to his feet with d'Artagnan's supportive hand on his arm. As Aramis gazed into the distance trying to clear his head of the horrible image he had just seen, he wished for a water skin to wash the foul taste from his mouth. If only his mind could be so easily cleansed.

He knew he had to tell d'Artagnan what he witnessed but first he wanted to put some distance between them and that horrid grave. "I need water," he declared as he headed back into the glen and subsequently their horses where he grabbed a water skin and washed out his mouth.

D'Artagnan patiently waited and watched knowing the older man would tell him what he witnessed when he was ready. D'Artagnan looked at Aramis expectantly as the man started to speak.

"I have been on more than one battlefield. But that," he jerked his head towards the rocks that could no longer be seen, "is second only to Savoy." After taking a deep, shaky breath, he continued. "There were dozens of bodies in various stages of," he swallowed hard, "decomposition. And the ones that were still fairly intact, all had bullet wounds in their heads."

Unbidden, their eyes strayed to the dead man and woman on the ground nearby who also were sporting the same cause of death.

"You mean," the younger man said, his voice tinged with horror, "the Marquis shot them all? In cold blood?"

Aramis momentarily closed his eyes giving a small head shake. "I fear you are correct."

D'Artagnan's voice shook in disbelief at the thought that any man could be that cruel. "Why?"

Aramis reached out a steadying hand and clapped it on the boy's shoulder. "That I don't know. But, I think I know who does."

"Athos." The boy's voice betrayed the pain he felt for his mentor.

"And it explains why our friend is so distraught. If he knows about this, and if..."

D'Artagnan cut him off. "...he somehow blames himself..."

Aramis nodded in concurrence. "Athos has a bad habit of taking the blame and the weight of the world on his shoulders."

"What do we do about this?" d'Artagnan's hand swept through the air indicating the area of the dead.

Not immediately answering, Aramis took the reins of his horse and Porthos' and indicated d'Artagnan should take the other two animals. Leading them slowly away from the carnage, he continued until he found where Porthos and a revived Athos were sitting, with the injured man leaning against a tree.

When they arrived, Aramis finally answered d'Artagnan's question. "You two take Athos and head back to the road. Keep to a walk. I'll catch up."

Porthos frowned with concern. "Exactly what are you planning to do?"

"The people at the estate need to know the Marquis is dead. I'm going to ride back, inform them, and have them send a party to bury the dead. When we get back to Paris we will inform the King of what has happened here and let his people straighten it out." Walking over in front of Athos and squatting down, he studied the man's face. "Athos," he said softly and waited until the man's eyes focused on him. "Can you ride?"

Athos stared at him and then his eyes narrowed. His voice was hoarse and hollow as he spoke. "You saw. You know."

Aramis couldn't meet that anguished gaze, so he dropped his eyes to the ground for a moment, took control of his emotions, and then raised his brown eyes to meet the green one again. "I did, my friend. We will make this right."

Athos gave a bitter laugh as he momentarily stared into the distance. "It can't be undone." Awkward silence settled over the men before Athos began to struggle to his feet. "I can ride. We must go to the house and inform them what has occurred."

Aramis reached out a hand as much to steady the wobbly Athos, as to emphasize his point. "I will go to the estate. You will ride on with Porthos and D'Artagnan. We have a long journey home. I will catch up by nightfall."

Athos started to protest but Aramis held up a hand and stopped him. "I will have Porthos knock you senseless if I must, but you are not going back to that place."

The wind seemed to suddenly spill from Athos' sail and he hung his head in resignation.

D'Artagnan came over and gently took his mentor by the elbow. "Come on. Let's mount up on your ill-tempted beast shall we? I'll even give you a leg up unless of course you up have already taught this nag to kneel like Roger."

The gentle joke brokered no response from the dejected man. He docilely allowed the young man to lead him towards his horse.

Porthos shook his head as he watched Athos meekly allow d'Artagnan to give him a leg up. "That scares me, more than what we just saw. That ain't Athos."

"It scares me too." The two men gave each other a slap on the back before heading over to where Athos and the now mounted D'Artagnan waited. Reaching up, he clasped Athos on the leg. "No faster than a walk, my brother," he gently scolded but Athos was staring off into the distance not appearing to have even heard. Aramis sighed and glanced at the other two who gave brief nods to show they understood.

Aramis went over to his own steed, mounted, and then turned his horse to face them. "I'll see you by nightfall. Leave a candle burning." With that he touched his heels to his horse's side and was off towards the manor.

The other two urged their beasts in the opposite direction and like an obedient servant, Athos trailed along quietly behind them. While he was with them physically, the two Musketeers knew mentally he was in a total other reality.


	34. Chapter 34

CHAPTER 34

Understandably, the estate was sent into a state of chaos by Aramis' announcement that their liege Lord was dead, especially since the Marquis had no heirs. The lands would be forfeited to the King, who in turn would gift it to a court favorite. That way it would become a profitable establishment thereby increasing the treasury's depleted coffers. But until that time, someone had to keep up the day-to-day maintenance of the estate and that was what Aramis was sorting out. It took a bit longer than he would have liked; he was anxious to get on the road and meet up with his companions. However, by the time he was finally able to mount and ride out, he was confident things would remain stable until the King's men could arrive.

It was after midday when Aramis urged his horse into a ground eating canter along the lonely road. If his friends had stayed at a walk, which he was certain two of them would do and the third would have to be coerced to, he should be able to catch up with them before dark. After the day's adventures, he really wanted to examine Athos' wounds before the daylight slipped away. Like all of them, the older musketeer was prone to deliberately understating his fitness, partially to protect his brothers from worry and partially, Aramis secretly thought, because the man who appeared confident to the outside world had very little internal self-worth.

Aramis ruminated over the personality that was his best friends and brother-in-arms as he rode along. There was no denying that the three of them, nicknamed the Inseparables, were an odd lot at best and barely civilized lunatics on many occasions. The addition of d'Artagnan to the mix was certainly not a stabilizing factor as the young man brought his own brand of insanity to the table. For all their quirks and demons, and they all had them, one thing was certain, they would fight and defend each other to the end. In a world of strife and insecurity that was a comforting thought in the darkest hours of the night.

They also were all a work in progress, each man trying of help his brother overcome his personal obstacles. Porthos, born and raised in the streets, had a bad habit of viewing some unlawful activities such as cheating, as permissible' It had caused his brothers, more than once, to have to come to his aid. Aramis didn't judge the man, he had no right considering his flaws, but he and Athos thought it their duty to gently try to help the card-shark see the errors of his ways.

Porthos struggled with respectability issues because of narrow-minded people who labeled him as gutter rat, even though there was no more loyal, compassionate man in all of Paris. Within their first year of meeting, Athos had taught Porthos to read in a manner that wasn't degrading and Porthos had been very grateful. The ability to read and do figures made the orphan secretly feel more respectable, even though he would deny it if anyone asked. But that is what the Inseparables did for each other; helped without judgement.

Aramis' brothers were well aware of his passion for women or as Athos liked to remind him, other men's women. The more unattainable, the more attractive Aramis seemed to find them. It was his curse and his weakness. Aramis' indiscretions had dragged his brethren down with him on more than a few occasions: covering for him at roll call, helping him avoid irate husbands, fighting alongside him and being willing to hang with him.

Athos had been shocked, dismayed, and angry at Aramis' indiscretion with the Queen. Even though he would hang too, if Aramis' amorous liaison was discovered, Athos found it within his heart to forgive his brother. That didn't stop the older musketeer from reminding and bullying Aramis to behave when he was around her majesty, but when he did go off and do something stupid, Athos would roll his eyes, grumble, but forgive because that is what brothers did for each other.

D'Artagnan had the impetuousness of youth. He felt everything too keenly and wore his emotions on his sleeve. Rushing in first and thinking later had caused his brothers to have to step forward on numerous occasions to smooth things over. But a more eager, loyal, trustworthy person was not too be had in all of Paris. His brothers loved him for what he was, and what he brought to the table, something to be nurtured, guided and to carry forth the legacy that was the musketeers.

Athos' flaws were his honor, his wife, and his wine, and the three were intertwined into a knot that would often started to unravel, but never completely come undone. His honor caused him to hang his wife, which drove him to drink. When he discovered his wife didn't die and was running around Paris murdering people, it tore more holes in his honor because Athos couldn't bring himself to finish what he began with the noose. Athos loved her and hated her in the same breath and these diametrical emotions tore upon his sense of self-worth. While he appeared as an honorable man to the outside world, to himself he was a traitor and a coward. This often translated into acts of heroism or stupidity, depending on your point of view, from which his brothers had to save him. But they did gladly for he was their brother.

Now was one of those times Aramis feared they all would be required to work very hard to save their brother from the darkness that had taken hold of his soul. Aramis had no idea what was going on in Athos' head, but he knew one thing for sure; if it was left to fester, like an infected wound, it could destroy Athos. He, Porthos and d'Artagnan, would once again have to breech those intimating stone walls that surrounded Athos' tortured mind and through understanding, kindness, forgiveness and a few fist fights, show the man he was worthy and that they loved him.

With renewed resolve, Aramis urged his horse into a faster pace, eager to catch up with his beloved brothers. About two hours before sunset, he noted a discrete marker on the roadside that indicated his fellow Musketeer's had detoured from the path to set up camp for the night. The ride had probably been very taxing on the injured Athos and it made sense not to push him too hard.

As Aramis rode into the camp, he was greeted by the scent of meat roasting over a fire. D'Artagnan was cooking what appeared to be a brace of rabbits, while Porthos was tending a pot of water. Athos was sitting off to one side, leaning against a tree, glaring into space. His left check sported what appeared to be a small cut and the beginnings of a bruise, and his hands were tied in front of his body. Aramis dismounted and walked over to the cheerful fire where he was heartily greeted by two of his companions and ignored by the third.

"It would appear you had a little trouble today. Stubborn bandits perhaps?" Aramis' tone remained casual as if they were talking about the weather.

Porthos glanced meaningfully in the direction of the tree. "Stubborn, yes. Bandits, no."

D'Artagnan gave the rabbits a rotation on the spit before standing up to face Aramis, his hands coming to rest on his weapons belt. He pitched his voice to make sure it could be heard by all parties in the camp. "It seems Athos' ill-mannered horse showed his true colors again today by unexpectedly and without provocation taking off at a pace somewhat faster than a walk."

"Maybe because his rider kicked his heels into his flanks," Porthos muttered meaningfully.

Aramis removed his hat and ran a hand through his hair. "I see. And how long did this pace, which was quicker than a walk..."

"What's it called when a horse's four feet are all off the ground?" Porthos interrupted as he scratched his beard for a second in thought. "Oh yeah, a gallop."

"Gallop," Aramis amended with a little nod to Porthos, "go on for?"

The youngest Musketeer glanced at Porthos as he considered his answer. "Not long enough because when we caught up and subdued the ill-mannered beast, Porthos was still in quite a temper."

Aramis internally debated which ill-mannered beast the boy was referring to having to subdue, the horse or the man. Given the abrasion on Athos' face that wasn't there earlier in the day, he was leaning towards man.

Aramis was watching Athos out of the corner of his eye and so far his expression remained distant, if not a bit vacant. Focusing back on the young man who had knelt to rotate the rabbits again, he inquired, "How did you subdue the... beast?"

It was Porthos that replied. "He runs slow, he does."

Feeling he was on pretty safe ground about which beast they were now discussing, Aramis ventured, "So Flip cut off the other horse." Of all their mounts Flip, the mixed breed, was the fastest.

Porthos gave a quick nod.

Aramis beat some imaginary dust off his grey hat. "Well that was fortunate. I'm sure Athos was greatly appreciative of your assistance with his ill-mannered mount."

Porthos smirked, a scowl appeared on Athos' face, and d'Artagnan suddenly took great interest in the cooking of the rabbits, unnecessarily fussing over the browning bunnies. "I'm not sure," the boy made a minute adjustment to the spit, "appreciative is the right word."

Porthos cheerfully spouted off a listed of alternatives. "Mad. Angry. Pissed. Irate. Cheesed off. Enraged. Indignant. Rabid. No, I take that one back, he wasn't foaming at the mouth was he d'Artagnan?"

"Well, maybe a little," the young man deadpanned before breaking into smile.

"I imagine that new bruise forming on his face was an unfortunate side-effect of the ill-mannered beast's head long run."

The pot of water that Porthos had been tending was now boiling and he rose to his feet. "Nah. That was all me. But I didn't hit him where he was already hurt."

With a tilt of his head, Aramis replied, "Very considerate of you."

Porthos agreed with a slight incline of his own head. "I was sorely tempted to do more, but I restrained myself."

A smile tugged at the corner of Aramis' bearded mouth. "Again, very noble of you. And the rope?"

"A safety precaution," d'Artagnan chimed in. "And a compromise."

"Compromise?" Aramis echoed glancing over at where Athos resided against the tree trunk.

"He wouldn't bloody well agree to behave. In fact, he hasn't said a word since we left you this morning." Porthos scowled at Athos, who ignored him.

Aramis still appeared confused on the compromise portion, so D'Artagnan sought to enlighten him. "After we stopped the horse, Porthos asked Athos if he was... ah... going to be able to control his horse for the rest of the ride." d'Artagnan glanced over at Porthos apologetically. "Not to correct you, but I do believe Athos did have something to say at that point."

"Oh that's right. He did, didn't he," Porthos agreed. "Such language from a Comte. We didn't even use those two words in the Court of Miracles, well at least not often."

Aramis was tempted to ask if one of the words rhymed with duck.

"And so," d'Artagnan picked up the threads of the tale, "the compromise was not to tie him to his horse..."

"Or drag him behind it," Porthos interjected.

"...but rather only tie his hands and allow him to continue to ride...upright," the boy concluded.

"I see." Aramis noted the boiling pot of water and the descending sun. "As the water is ready, now would be an excellent time for me to examine Athos' wounds and clean them up. Then we can sit down as a family and have a nice meal. Those rabbits smell wonderful."

D'Artagnan went back to tending his meat and Porthos brought the pot of water over to where Aramis had moved next to Athos. He set it on the ground then left to tend to Aramis' horse giving the two men some faux-privacy.

"Would you bring my medical supplies from my saddle bags please," Aramis requested of the departing Porthos.

Porthos did as asked, placing the bags next to the pot on the grass then headed back to tend to the horse.

The whole time the other three had been conversing, Athos remained silent, staring off into space. That didn't change when Aramis squatted next to him and removed the ropes from his wrists. A cursory examination showed the rough bonds had not abraded the skin. "We're going to have to remove your shirt and pants so I can see how your wounds are doing."

Though his eyes didn't move, Athos' lips did. "I don't suppose telling you the same thing I told Porthos would do any good."

Aramis grinned. "I won't punch you in the face like Porthos did, should you choose to utter those words, but I still will remove your clothes."

Giving a small nod, Athos didn't fuss when Aramis started working his tunic over his head. Conversationally he asked, "Where did you learn that expression? It doesn't seem to me something your governess or tutor would teach you."

That actually made Athos stop and think. Where had he learned that vulgar expression? Aramis was right that it hadn't come from his teachers. In fact, had he ever been stupid enough to utter it in their presence, he shuddered to think of the consequences. Had his father ever heard him use it, he would have had to have the blacksmith tan him a new belt, because his father would have worn out his old one beating Athos black and blue. Suddenly he remembered. "Remy. I learned it from Remy. He was shoeing a high-tempered stallion who managed to place a well-aimed kick to his..."

Like all men, Aramis didn't need the anatomical part named and he winced. "Ouch."

"Exactly. We became friends after that because I kept his faux-pau private." Athos couldn't help a small smirk from quirking the right side of his mouth.

The two lapsed into silence. It was only broken by the occasional muttering of Aramis as he examined, cleaned, and bandaged the wounds, and a few groans from Athos when he simply couldn't tamp down his pain. The cuts on the forearm, thigh, and back were healing nicely in Aramis' opinion. However, the oldest one, the one Athos received prior to his last fight, was inflamed and very tender to the touch. With apologies because he knew he was about to cause his friend to suffer, he took a heated knife to the wound to drain the pus. Athos desperately tried to remain his usual stoic self, but the procedure was too painful and got the better of him. Tears leaked from the corner of his eyes and he averted his face.

"I'm sorry," Aramis murmured his voice full of anguish, hating that he had to cause his brother such distress.

The nearly imperceptible nod from Athos told him he was forgiven. Finishing up the unpleasant task, Aramis gave newly applied bandage one last check before he cleansed his hands. After drying them on a piece of rag, Aramis reached over, brushed Athos' stray bangs aside, and felt his clammy forehead.

That brought a negative reaction from Athos, who immediately jerked his head away in annoyance. "Do you mind!"

Aramis casually let his hand drop back to his lap, shaking his head in disbelief. "You amaze me. I can dig in your side with a hot blade and you are fine. But you go ballistic, when I touch your forehead to see if you are running a fever."

"You simply could have asked," Athos sulked, as he averted his eyes.

Aramis gave a little laugh. "And you would have lied and said you were fine," he accused.

Athos had the decency not to deny what was a true statement.

Still chuckling, Aramis stood up and collected the saddle bags and used supplies, before he turned somber. "And for the record, you are not fine and you have a fever. Get dressed and join us for dinner."

Still resembling a small, sulking child, Athos grumbled, "I'm not hungry."

Tossing the saddle bag over his broad shoulder, Aramis asked a rhetorical question. "Do you know some people have 13 pairs of ribs? However, the average man or woman for that matter, has 12. You, my dear friend, are average. Are you curious how I know that you are average?"

"No," Athos answered as he glanced up at Aramis, totally lost as to where this conversation was headed.

Aramis ignored his snide reply and continued with his tale. "I know you are average because I can count every one of your ribs from where I am standing. There are only 12. Now get dressed and come eat. D'Artagnan spent a lot of time and effort making us a nice meal." With that the romantic musketeer wandered away leaving the stubborn, stoic one to dress.

Eventually, Athos joined them for dinner, but really did little more than pick at his meal. Aramis knew the low-grade fever that was zapping Athos strength was effecting his appetite. Making Athos come eat wasn't as much about food, as it was about exerting some level of control over the man and trying to get him out of his funk.

However, when Aramis saw Athos nearly take a nose dive into his barely touched plate of rabbit, he motioned for Porthos to take away the plate. The always hungry Porthos was happy to oblige, removing the dish from the hands of nearly comatose Athos, and devouring the leftovers. There were no germs between friends. Aramis got up and spread a cloak on the flattest piece of grass he could find and then cajoled the sleepy Athos to move over to it and lay down.

It was a testament to how poorly Athos must have been feeling that he didn't protest the assistance in settling for the night. Once Aramis was certain he had done everything in his power to make Athos comfortable, short of giving the man a sleeping draught, he gave his brother a friendly good-night pat on the shoulder. As he was standing to leave, his curiosity got the better of him. "When you took off today, where were you headed? The Marquis and Jehan are dead and I took care of everything at the estate, I assure you."

When no answer seemed to be forthcoming, Aramis sighed in frustration. However, as he turned away he thought he heard Athos whisper, "I need to be alone."

Aramis knew the last thing Athos needed was to be alone. The man would spiral into a depression that he might not be able to escape. His brothers were not going to let that happen for they loved their oldest brother and would not stand by while he self-destructed. All for one and one for all. Their motto was a sacred vow, not just a meaningless slogan.


	35. Chapter 35

CHAPTER 35

Before the rest of the Musketeer's settled for the night, they set the watch schedule with Porthos leading off and d'Artagnan closing out. The youngest musketeer worriedly eyed the sleeping Athos as he debated where to bunk down for the night and Aramis noted it.

"If you are concerned that our less than model patient may try to bolt in the middle of the night have no worries. I plan to sleep right next to him to ensure he doesn't wander," Aramis reassured d'Artagnan.

D'Artagnan's concern was palatable. "Are his wounds infected?"

Trying to allay the younger man's fear, Aramis kept his tone light, even though he wasn't sure how dangerous the situation might become. "Only one. I drained and cleaned it."

Though he didn't appear particularly comforted, d'Artagnan tried to take Aramis at face value. "Maybe I should stay up and watch him," he said as he looked doubtfully at his feverish mentor.

Aramis draped his arm over the worrying man's shoulder and gently guided him away from where Athos was laying. "Absolutely no need. I will be sleeping right next to him with one hand on his chest. Get some rest. We will need our wits about us tomorrow."

Reluctantly, d'Artagnan settled his fatigued body on the ground on the far side of the fire as Aramis headed back to Athos. Once again without asking the unconscious man's permission, Aramis leaned over and brushed Athos' hair aside to feel his forehead. He frowned because the man felt hotter than the last time he had checked, which meant the fever was on the rise.

Aramis had willow bark in his supplies and he debated about brewing a potion to see if it would help stem the fevers ascent. There was still some warm water left over from their meal, so he walked over to the fire, poured it in a mug, and then added the herbs letting them steep before straining the mixture.

Setting the mug aside in a safe place to cool, he squatted next to Athos and attempted to rouse him. It didn't go well. Athos' eyelids would flutter open for a bit then droop close and after a few minutes Aramis gave up and let him sleep. The medicine was ready if he needed it later in the night and perhaps rest was as important as the medicine at the moment.

Arranging his long limbs in a comfortable position on the ground, he reached over and placed his hand on Athos' calf, not chest, as he had told d'Artagnan. It would be enough to alert Aramis if his patient became too restless in the night, easier to maintain, and more comfortable for the both of them. Closing his tired eyes, Aramis breathed deeply as he willed his body to rest.

When his watch was over, Porthos woke Aramis who felt like he had barely gotten any sleep. Though he had good intentions, Aramis must have rolled over while asleep because his back was now facing his patient. Raising his fatigued eyes to meet Porthos' concerned ones, he knew what the big man was about to say.

"He worse," Porthos gravely stated.

After rubbing a weary hand across his eyes, Aramis sat up, turned to face Athos, did another unannounced temperature check and decided Porthos was spot on with his observation. "Help me get him sitting so I can try to get him to drink some medicine."

As Aramis went to retrieve the mug, Porthos did his best to rouse Athos and prop him up in a sitting position. It wasn't easy as the man was half-conscious at best and not at all cooperative. Aramis returned with the mug and held it to Athos' lips, encouraging him to drink. In was debatable how much made it down Athos' throat and how much dribbled through his beard onto his dark, chest hair.

After Porthos laid the man back down, he simply stood there staring at his ailing brother. D'Artagnan might wear his heart on his sleeve, but it was Porthos who felt the pain and suffering of his brothers the most. Knowing there was nothing at the moment Porthos could do for Athos, Aramis encouraged him to go rest. Like d'Artagnan, the large man was reluctant to leave Athos' side but Aramis provided the same logic he had used earlier; tomorrow they would need their wits about them. Eventually, Porthos went to lie down by D'Artagnan and like a true solider was able to get his body to drift off to sleep.

As the night wore on, the outside perimeter of the camp remained calm but inside was anything but that as Athos' temperature climbed and his restlessness, driven by the fever, grew worse. The heat that was radiating off of Athos' body could be felt without actually having to touch his skin. As Aramis stared at him with worry, Athos began to convulse, his limbs twitching uncontrollably. Aramis cradled Athos' head so it wouldn't bang on the ground. Within seconds, he felt the presence of d'Artagnan and Porthos joining him, woken by the man's thrashing. Though the episode only lasted a few minutes, to the three men it felt like an eternity. They let out a collective sigh of relief when their brother was still again.

"Damn fever," Aramis cursed in frustration. They were in the middle of the woods and he simply didn't have any ideas how to help.

"We had a horse on the farm that hurt her leg and it got infected. She developed a fever and to bring it down, we soaked her leg in the stream," d'Artagnan offered as he sat back on his haunches and stared thoughtfully at Athos. "There is a stream nearby and I believe it was clean and reasonably deep. Perhaps it would help."

Aramis beamed at the boy. To do that hadn't occurred to him, a testament to the mental exhaustion plaguing the part-time medic. "That is an excellent suggestion," Aramis declared as he clapped the boy on the shoulder. "Help me get his clothes off. We will want them dry for later."

Luckily, the night was blessed with a full moon, which provided enough illumination for them to see well enough to complete the task. After they had him striped down to his last layer, Porthos scooped him up in his strong arms, carried him to the stream, and laid Athos on the bank before he started to strip off his own clothes.

A slight argument ensued as they debated who should be allowed take him into the stream to cool him. No one wanted to sit helplessly on the bank simply watching. In the end, Porthos won out and once ready, he picked up Athos again and gingerly waded into the stream trying to avoid stepping on the hidden obstacles on the stream's bed. Eventually, Porthos maneuvered to a partially submerged rock formation where he was able to sit on an underwater ledge and keep Athos' body underwater and his head above it.

There was nothing the other two musketeers could do at the moment so Aramis tried to convince d'Artagnan to go back to camp and get some rest. The younger man wouldn't hear of it so in the end they sat side-by-side on the bank and watched as their two brothers did the same in the water

"So the mare, she got better?" Aramis asked conversationally, trying to get the worrying man to focus on something else for a few minutes, other than his injured mentor.

D'Artagnan gave Aramis a sideways glance and the marksman could tell that his inquiry was stressing the younger man. With a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, Aramis lamented, "Please don't tell me she died."

D'Artagnan averted his eyes back to the two men in the creek. "She did," he confirmed, "but not from the fever."

"Well, at least that is comforting," Aramis remarked with relief.

"She tripped and broke her leg walking out of the stream. We had to shot her." D'Artagnan looked at Aramis and shrugged. "Athos is not a horse."

"More of a mule, I'd say. And I won't deny I have contemplated shooting him at times," Aramis jested, trying to lighten the mood. D'Artagnan gave him a brief smile before they settled back into somberness.

"Do you ever wonder what your life would have been like, if you had taken a different path," d'Artagnan asked of Aramis.

"Of course. I think everyone does. Why? Are you already regretting your choice to become a musketeer?" Aramis gently probed not sure if there was any meaning to this conversation or just a methodology to pass the time and keep the demon-driven thoughts at bay.

A sad little smile haunted the bash, young, musketeer's countenance. "Regret being a musketeer? Never! What I regret is the way it came about, through my father's death."

"Understandably," Aramis sympathetically agreed. "We all get dealt a hand of cards by God and we must figure out how to play them, which to keep and which to discard. And along the path of life you may pick up another card or two, but in the end it is still up to you to decide how to play them. We are only given so many cards in the game of life." Aramis paused a moment before adding, "Unless of course you are Porthos and have a few extra up your sleeve."

Silence settled over the two men as they sat side-by-side in the night. After awhile, Aramis stood and motioned to Porthos to bring Athos out of the stream not wanting either one of them to take a chill. When Porthos came out of the water, Aramis felt Athos' forehead and smiled slightly. "I think this has worked. It feels like the fever may have broken. Let's get him back to camp."

Once there, they dressed him before settling him on the ground. Aramis was happy in a way that Athos was not aware of what was happening because he would have hated all the fussing. As Athos seemed to settle into a more peaceful sleep, Aramis encouraged his other brothers to do the same until d'Artagnan reminded him he was supposed to be on watch and that Aramis was to be sleeping. Aramis' argued as the pseudo-physician of the group he should be the one that stayed awake. However, his speech was spoiled when half way through it he gave a mighty yawn.

Porthos and d'Artagnan knew if Athos took a turn for the worse, they needed Aramis to be at his best, which was not going to happen if he was exhausted. So they ganged up on him and made him rest. For all his protesting, Aramis did manage to fall into a sound sleep.

The next morning as three of the Musketeer's broke their fast, they discussed how to proceed. It was easily agreed upon that they should maintain this campsite for at least one more day to give the still slumbering Athos time to recover. The nearest decent-sized town was at least a hard day's ride. While they were all sure if they asked Athos when he woke up if he were fit to ride, the answer would be yes. However, they also knew that Athos wasn't a particularly good judge of his own state of health. One time he had been impaled in the shoulder with a dagger and the stoic man had stood there, bleeding profusely, declaring he was fine. So this was one decision he wouldn't be making; in fact, he wouldn't even be allowed to vote.

About mid-morning Athos finally began to wake, his eye lids fluttering as he opened them, found the world to bright, and closed them again. Aramis heard the change in Athos' breathing patterns and was on hand, verbally encouraging the musketeer to wake up. It took about ten minutes before the green eyes stayed open and gained a measure of recognition in them, and Aramis thought this a good sign. He once again reached out, brushed the matted bangs away from Athos' forehead, and felt his temperature. The scowl he got in return, he also took as an excellent sign.

"My apologies," he stated lightly with a small grin. "I believe I was supposed to ask permission before laying hands on you."

"I'll forgive you this time," Athos managed to croak out.

D'Artagnan, hearing his mentor's voice, hurried over with a mug of water and with Aramis' help got the man into a seated position and pressed the mug to his lips. Athos gratefully drank the cool water, though Aramis made him do it slowly.

As his awareness increased, Athos felt something was off. "Where is Porthos?"

Keeping a straight face, d'Artagnan replied, "You were snoring so loudly, he moved away so he could get some decent rest." That earned him the Athos famous scowl, which made d'Artagnan break into a grin.

Aramis refilled the mug with water and offered it to the seated man. "Since we are going to be here for a day or so, he went hunting for dinner."

"Why," the injured musketeer asked not in the form of a question, but a demand. By his facial expression, it was clear he wasn't inquiring about why Porthos was hunting for dinner. It was the former part of the previous statement that he was questioning.

Aramis knew exactly what Athos was asking but chose to play obtuse. "Because d'Artagnan offered to cook us a nice meal, if Porthos caught some rabbits."

D'Artagnan leaned in conspiratorially whispering, "My Grandmother's recipe. Handed down from generation to generation."

Athos ignored their nonsense and got back on point. "We need to ride out immediately."

Aramis stood as he shook his head. "No, I don't think so."

Clearly, that wasn't the response Athos wanted and he started to struggle to stand. When d'Artagnan went to offer a hand, Aramis warned him off with a glare and the boy walked a few paces away to stand by Aramis.

Stubborn being Athos' middle name, he continued to try to climb to his feet. However, his injured, exhausted body thought better and simply wouldn't cooperate. After failing to make it upright after three tries, Athos remained on the ground and bowed his head in discontentment.

Feeling his friend's distress about his physical state, Aramis moved back to kneel by Athos' side. When the man refused to acknowledge his presence, Aramis placed a hand on his shoulder. "You scared us last night, Athos. Your fever was so high you had convulsions. If d'Artagnan hadn't thought to cool you in the stream..." Aramis let his voice drift off.

That got Athos' attention and he slowly raised his head as he swept his eyes across the solemn faces of his brothers, before returning them to focus on the ground. "I am sorry. To have put you through that," he mumbled.

All Aramis' unspoken fears from last night, when he thought Athos might die, resurfaced and angered him. Reaching over, he put a hand under Athos' bearded chin and forced him to raise his head and look at him. "Sorry? What do you have to be sorry about? If you had died, we would have been the ones that were sorry. Left behind, alone, without you. How do you think we would feel? We are you brothers, your family. We love you and would do anything for you. Just don't ask us to watch you needlessly die because you do something stupid."

Athos tried to turn his head away, but Aramis wouldn't let him.

"We...love...you. We can forgive anything, Athos. Trust us. Let us," Aramis pleaded as he finally dropped his hand from Athos' chin.

In a rare moment, Athos let his guard drop and anguish and turmoil showed on his face. "I..." but before he could say anything else, Porthos came cheerfully strolling into the glen.

"Got some nice fat bunnies. Hey, look who is wake," he remarked dropping the rabbits and moving over to the three men. Though he was a big man, he gracefully dropped to his knees and gave Athos a warm, but gentle, embrace.

Athos' face immediately shifted back into one of neutrality and Aramis realized that the moment had passed and they wouldn't yet learn what was really torturing their brother.

"Ya know we took a little swim last night," Porthos joshed.

Athos tilted his head a bit and gave a small quirk of his lips. "I thought I felt clean this morning," he drily returned. "Thank you." He touched each of his brothers with sincere eyes. "I think I owe you my life."

Porthos laughed, rising to his feet and giving Athos a little slap on the shoulder. "No worries. When you get better, we'll collect."

With that Porthos moved off, picked up the rabbits, and headed off to clean them. d'Artagnan left to help to ensure they were done to his specifications. A gentle, playful argument broke out between the two brothers about how best to proceed.

Once they were alone, Aramis wondered if Athos would speak from the heart, but soon realized the man was exhausted from his brief period of wakefulness. He urged Athos to lie upon the ground again and rest, as that is what his body needed at the moment to recover. Everything else would have to wait. Aramis left him to rest knowing Athos' body was on the mend, but he was still extremely concerned about the swordsman's soul.


	36. Chapter 36

CHAPTER 36

Though it was barely noon, three of the four men at the camp were hungry so d'Artagnan made them a meal. The farmer turned musketeer did justice to the rabbits though you wouldn't have known that by the way Athos picked at his plate of food. Aramis tried to coax Athos to eat more knowing the man's resources were being depleted and need replenishing. But in the end, Porthos had nearly a complete second meal as he scoffed-down Athos' leftovers.

After he had finished eating, Athos wandered slowly back over to the tree he favored sitting against. Lowering his aching body to the ground, he angled his back cautiously against the trunk before wearily closing his eyes against the mid-day sunshine. Suddenly, he felt something brush his forehead and his warrior's instincts took over as he batted the object away.

Quickly opening his eyes, they met Aramis' amused brown ones. "Apologies. I do believe I was supposed to ask your permission."

"Your lucky I didn't have my sword," Athos grumbled, but without conviction.

Aramis chuckled at his moody friend. "If you had your sword I would have taken a totally different approach." Moving his hand towards Athos' forehead again, he politely asked, "May I?"

"If I tell you I'm fine will you go away?" Athos asked, but his defeated tone indicated he already knew the answer.

A pious expression took over Aramis' appearance. "Fine? Athos don't perjure your immortal soul with such a lie."

"My immortal soul is far beyond redemption at this point," the swordsman retorted and the inflection was too serious for Aramis.

Aramis didn't like Athos thinking he was a lost soul for the religious man knew his God was one of forgiveness, mercy, and kindness. No matter what Athos thought, Aramis knew his brother's good deeds would far out way his bad ones come judgement day. However, he had yet to win that argument with the stubborn man sitting in front of him and now wasn't the time to try again. With a sigh of discontentment, he simply let the comment pass unchallenged and reached over to feel Athos' forehead.

The medic musketeer frowned and Athos who was watching from the corner of his eye knew it wasn't going to be good news.

"You seem warmer," Aramis mumbled softly under his breath not wanting the two musketeers on the other side of the camp to hear his proclamation.

"It's hot out," was Athos' quick counter-argument.

The marksman stood as he contemplated what to do about the return of Athos' fever. Aramis was worried about d'Artagnan and Porthos' well-being because his companions had been under a lot of stress since Athos' disappearance, as had he. The two men had been elated when it appeared Athos' temperature had been tamed last night and he appeared to be on the mend. The mood in the camp this morning had been one of hope and revitalization. If he declared that Athos' fever had returned, Aramis had no doubts the mood would spiral downward again. Positivity was as important for Athos' recovery as it was for d'Artagnan and Porthos' mental health.

His eyes roamed around the camp passing over d'Artagnan and Porthos and landing on the water skin near them. A big smile suddenly lit his face as an idea came to him. "Gentlemen, Athos has informed me it is hot," he announced in a voice pitched to carry to everyone in the camp, "So we're going bathing." Giving a delicate sniff with his nose, he added, "You stink."

D'Artagnan looked thrilled at the idea, Porthos skeptical, and Athos down right unhappy. But Aramis wasn't taking no for answer and he managed to herded them all to the river. Once there, d'Artagnan the farm boy who grew up with ponds was stripped and into the water in a flash.

Porthos stood hesitantly on the bank and after giving the river the once over, declared he would stand watch on the shore. No amount of persuading on their part could get him to change his mind.

"But last night you spent hours in that exact same river," Aramis reasoned with the curly-haired man who stood stubbornly, arms folded across his massive chest.

"It was dark and it was for Athos." That Porthos felt explained everything, though his brother's weren't so sure.

D'Artagnan standing in the shallows tried to clarify. "So you will only go in the water if it is dark and Athos is ill?"

"Water scares me. If I can't see it," he shrugged, "it's not so bad. I took my bath last night." He sat down on the bank indicating the end of the discussion and Athos eased down next to him.

The death-glare he received from Aramis had Athos complaining. "I too, took my bath last night. Or at least that is what I have been told."

"You," and there was no mistaking whom the 'you' was, "are getting in that river!" Aramis authoritatively commanded. "Let's not turn this into a wrestling match, shall we. Remember, you are the one that declared it was hot."

The flinch in Athos' shoulders indicated he had received Aramis' message loud and clear. His brother's determined attitude had him undressing with no further shenanigans and obediently heading into the cool water.

Athos actually liked the water and was a strong swimmer having had the opportunity to learn to swim as a privileged child. The fact he was comfortable in water had not gone unnoticed by his brethren over the years. D'Artagnan asked him about later, as the three men lounged in a deeper portion of the stream.

A small smile crept onto the corners of Athos' lips. "It was self-preservation, I guess. When I was a boy of seven my father gave me my first pony. She was grey with a gentle ride and the most evil sense of humor. I do think she was smarter than any horse I have ever owned except maybe for Roger. She was a great teacher having that awareness of who was upon her back and behaving accordingly. With a novice, she was like sitting on a wooden rocking horse: gentle, kind, and patient. As you progressed, she would push you harder as if she was testing and honing your new found skills. I think that pony made me into a better rider than any instructor I ever had."

The men couldn't help smiling at the image of Athos-the-child and his wise, grey pony.

"One day my human instructor decided it was time I learned to ride bareback and so there I sat, on her grey back, my legs against her warm skin. As always, she started out slowly and as my balance and seat grew more secure, she upped her game. One of her favorite tricks was to make an unexpected change of direction. I swear that pony could touch her nose to her tail, and could change between a walk and a gallop in one beat. I had many a bruise and bump as proof of her dexterity."

That brought another smile to their faces as the imagined a small boy, hair hanging in his eyes, being unceremoniously dumped in the grass by a mischievous pony.

"What was her name?" d'Artagnan inquired wondering what insight he would gain based on what the young Athos had named his first pony.

Unconsciously, Athos slipped into his Comte mode of speech as if he were reciting a lesson by rote. "My father was not a fan of naming livestock. I do believe he would have taken the same approach with the servants if it were proper."

Aramis and d'Artagnan exchanged sad glances, which Athos chose to ignore as he continued on with his tale.

"One summer day when we were riding bareback in a grassy field near one of the ponds on the estate, I learned another one of her peculiarities. Apparently, she was hot and took it into her mind to go for a refreshing dip without consulting me."

D'Artagnan laughed at Athos' deadpan delivery of that statement and Aramis wondered if the former Comte was as much as a control freak as a child as he was as an adult.

"That grey beast went from placidly walking to galloping full speed towards the pond. I had improved enough in my skills that I managed to stay on her back though I admit my hands were fully engaged in clutching her mane. I expected she would veer away from the water when she got close, but she didn't and plunged straight in the water moving further from the edge until she was fully swimming."

Unconsciously, Athos pushed his bangs out of his eyes with a wet hand as a slight grin appeared on his face. "What a swimmer that pony was cruising around that lake with me clinging to her back. When she finally tired, or perhaps got bored, she headed ashore and taught me another lesson. Wet horses are slippery! But after that we regularly went for a refreshing dip on hot days."

Athos sighed and while his face settled back into a mask of neutrality, his voice held an undertone of sadness. "She was a great pony and a good friend for a lonely boy. When I out grew her, she was retired to a field though I would still visit with her often. She never did get a chance to teach Thomas to ride as she was killed in a storm."

What Athos relay was that he had found her lifeless body in the field. When he went back to the house to inform his father of her demise, he had broken down and cried. His father had shown no sympathy. Instead, the grieving boy had been treated to a strict lecture by his father on stoicism and not getting attached to something that was merely a means of conveyance.

It had been the first of many lectures that were designed to make him into the respectable son of a nobleman and a future Comte. Being a quick learner, even at a young age, Athos didn't make the mistake of getting attached to an animal again at least not when his father was alive. However, it made a lonely life, even lonelier.

Aramis was suddenly hit with the recollection of occasionally seeing Athos and Roger riding thru the Garrison's gate on hot summer days slightly damp. "You swim with Roger, don't you?" he gleefully accused. The fact that Athos slightly ducked his head told Aramis he had guessed correctly. "Does he enjoy it?"

"I think so though not as much as that pony. I think she was part sea-creature. But, there is a quiet spot on the Seine where Roger and I sometime indulge in a swim," he grudgingly admitted. "It can be restorative."

Athos lapsed into silence and remained that way for the rest of the day. Aramis and Porthos were quite skilled in reading the subtle nuances that were Athos' moods and d'Artagnan was catching on quickly. All three men knew that something in the pony story had triggered a painful memory, which dogged Athos for the rest of the day. The musketeer further withdrew from the group, which if one didn't know the man, might have been overlooked as his normal behavior.

Athos tended to remain on the outskirts of social situations unless it was a fight and then he would be front and center. He sat, rode, stood, and watched slightly apart from his fellow man. When something was troubling his soul, he grew even more distant and it was that subtle difference the men noticed now.

Aramis was afraid Athos' health was deteriorating again, but when he asked and grudgingly got permission to check Athos' temperature, it felt within the range of normal.

For the rest of the day, his companions worked hard to break Athos' sullen mood, but they were unsuccessful. He wouldn't join in their banter, merely giving them an occasional half-smile, which never reached his eyes. He complimented d'Artagnan on his cooking, ate enough to appease Aramis, and then retired to rest even though everyone know he was wide awake as he lay apart from them.

Aramis had no illusions that Athos would allow them to stay at this camp another day here to gather strength though that was a battle to fight in the morning. They still had to get through the night. As he bowed his head to say his evening prayers, Aramis asked God to grant them a peaceful night. They needed it for Aramis felt in his bones that a storm was approaching.


	37. Chapter 37

CHAPTER 37

Happily, their night went smoothly and without any major interruptions though Athos was still restless and morning's first light found him up and eager to move out. Aramis wasn't convinced it was a good idea. He felt that another day of rest would be prudent. However, their stubborn Comte would not hear of it. Had they not agreed to leave, they had no doubt that Athos would ride out and leave them behind

Porthos, taking over the role of medic-disciplinarian from Aramis for a bit, insisted they break their fast before riding out. When it appeared that Athos was going to bulk at this condition, the large, strong man made it quite clear there would be no deviations from his plan. Athos was not a stupid man and he respected his brother's mind as well as his physical strength. So he acquiesced with only a few dark stares, which were easily ignored. Athos could control a crowd with his intense gaze, but these three weren't a group of strangers; they were his brothers and had no qualms about ignoring him in certain insistences.

As usual when he wasn't feeling one hundred percent, Athos spent most of his time rearranging the food on his plate instead of actually consuming it. But his friends who were more attuned to his maneuvers than he probably realized, quickly noted what he was doing and went on the offensive. The pace at which Athos consumed his food became a direct correlation with the pace at which they ate. This drew out the time it took them to eat their meal to something akin to an eternity.

Chomping at the bit to leave, Athos fumed at the length of time it was taking his brethren to consume a simple meal. Finally, in frustration he blurted out, "Aren't you done yet? By the time we get going it will be nightfall."

The three men looked at each other than at Athos who had risen to his feet with impatience.

Porthos elected himself spokesman for this conversation. He glanced from Athos, to the man's nearly full plate of food on the ground, back to Athos. "Don't look like you're done either."

Porthos nonchalantly began eating again at a turtle-pace, as did the rest of the crew ignoring Athos who waited with impatient exasperation for them to finish. It wasn't much more than a muscle twitch in the aggravated Athos' position, but it didn't go unnoticed by his brothers.

"Don't even think of it," Porthos growled without needing to look up from his plate. "I have rope and I'm not afraid to use it."

Athos halted his motions, his body's stance now showing the thought that had flickered through his brain, of riding off alone, had been efficiently stomped out by Porthos.

Aramis took pity on Athos who stood there appearing bewildered as to what to do next. So he decided to give him a clue. "It would be much easier to pack up if all the bowls were empty."

Athos' gaze travelled to where his nearly full plate resided on the ground and his eyes narrowed ever so slightly. But once again, his brethren anticipated his next move and countered it. "Porthos is getting a bit fluffy I think," Aramis mused. "Seems to me I heard Flip groan when Porthos mounted the other day."

Porthos gave a little grunt at Aramis' proclamation around a mouthful of food, which could have been either agreement or bugger off. But it really wasn't relevant to the conversation at hand so Aramis didn't ask for clarification.

"And," d'Artagnan joined in the blockade, "my Da always said it was a sin to waste food."

Getting the message loud and clear, Athos plopped on the grassy ground with a very audible huff, picked up his plate and began to eat. The other three musketeers politely refrained from smiling at their victory and also turned a deaf ear to a few choice mumblings about their characters from their unhappy colleague.

Finally, they got packed, mounted, and on their way in the mid-morning sunshine. Their pace started out sedately, though as the day wore on and Athos proved up to the task of riding they increased their speed, so by nightfall they had reached a small, but neat inn. There was one room left, with two beds, and the Musketeers secured it for the night.

D'Artagnan and Porthos took the horses to the cramped stable, brushed, and settled them for the night. Aramis and Athos took the saddlebags up to the room though the former wondered if his exhausted brother was going to make it up the narrow, steep staircase with the two bags he had insisted upon carrying. The cozy room they had been assigned had two beds, a table, and two chairs.

Dropping the two saddlebags he was shouldering on the floor near the door, Aramis walked over and examined the beds. "They appear clean and bug free," he cheerfully announced though he got no reply from the other man, not that he actually expected he would.

Aramis had a sneaky suspicion it was all Athos could do to remain upright and that any little thing, such as talking, might be the straw that broke the camel's back. Taking pity on his mule-like friend he said, "Why don't you wait here and I'll go see what is on the dinner menu of this fine establishment."

With that, Aramis turned and left the room, closing the door in his wake. He wondered as he wandered downstairs to find the innkeeper where he would find Athos upon his return.

As he was entering the inn's common room, d'Artagnan and Porthos returned from stabling the horses. Aramis prevailed upon them to sit and wait by the non-operating fireplace, while the cook put together a supper basket for them. Each man realized that despite Aramis' claim he needed help this was not about carrying the food upstairs. This was solely about giving their reclusive brother a few minutes of alone time.

The three musketeers put their time to good use betting on what position they would find Athos in upon their return to the room. To be fair to his brothers, Aramis first described the room, its content, and Athos' condition after he climbed the stairs. After establishing the room did not have a window, d'Artagnan and Porthos both went for the bed, while Aramis, banking on their leader's stubborn side, said the chair. If they found Athos in one of the beds, they needed a tie breaking criteria, which they decided would be whether he had his sword and weapons belt on. D'Artagnan was sure his mentor would respect the tools of his trade and carefully divest himself of them before lying down. Porthos laughed at what he felt was the naivety of the whelp assuring the boy that Athos would be sound asleep,on the bed, fully clothed, and with his entire arsenal upon his person.

The only thing left to decide was the prize for being correct and by the time the innkeeper showed up with their food that was also settled. The victor got to name his sleeping arrangements.

They thanked the man for the food and eagerly trotted up the narrow staircase with the tray, basket, bottles, and mugs to their room. Two men groaned and one let out a quiet cheer as their eyes swept the room. The saddlebags, which they hadn't thought to bet on, we're careless dropped by the side of the bed against the far wall. On the bed was the sprawled form of Athos, fully clothed, to include his hat, which was somewhat askew, and with all his weapons intact.

Porthos was incredibly pleased with his win and he unmercifully teased his losing brethren who took it good-naturedly. The food and drink was placed on the lone table in the room before they stared at their sleeping beauty.

"You gonna wake him up to eat?" Porthos asked as he eyed the slumbering man in the bed.

Aramis thought for a few moments then shook his head. "No. He seems to be resting peacefully at the moment. Perhaps it is best if we let sleeping dogs lie, though I think it would be best if we removed a few of his weapons so he doesn't hurt anyone in the middle of the night."

Porthos chuckled remembering one of the first times the three of them had shared a room and catching Aramis' eye the musketeer got him giggling too.

"Want to share?" d'Artagnan asked feeling like the odd man out so Porthos told the tale of their first indoor sleepover.

 _There had been a few awkward moments that first night sharing a room driven by lack of privacy, personal preferences, and what only could be labeled as personal quirks. There had been one large bed in the room and nothing else. It had been the middle of winter and they had been chilled to the bone by the frigid weather. Their dinner had been barely edible and lukewarm at best. Worse of all, the inn was out of any type of spirits and the new shipment of wine was not due until the morrow. Athos had immediately offered to ride out and look for the delivery wagon but his friends quite firmly vetoed the idea._

 _By the time they returned to their cold, drafty room, tempers were frayed and personalities disintegrating. They had first debated, a bit heatedly, on whether there was a need to post a guard. There was a significantly sturdy lock on the inner side of the door and they finally agreed it was secure enough not to require one of them to stand guard; and stand it would have been, considering there wasn't a chair in the room and the floor was ice cold._

 _Next had come the need for their nightly prep and they had eyed the single chamber pot in the room with a certain level of embarrassment. They had all answered the call-of-nature in front of each other on the trail, but never without the privacy of a tree or large bush. The chamber pot stood alone in the corner of the room without the least bit of screening._

 _Athos had been the one to solve that issue by heading out the door, down the stairs and back out into the frigid winter night. When he returned, he looked relieved, but cold. Having set the precedence, the other two had no choice but to follow suit and take their business outside the inn. Aramis had declared upon returning to their room if he had to pee in the middle of the night, his brethren had better turn their backs and plug their ears because there was no way he was going outside again. Athos had drily suggested he not drink anymore liquids for the night._

 _The next thing they had tackled was the bed which they knew they were going to have to share it for both comfort and warmth, but in what order? It was jammed up against one wall, so it meant whoever got in first was basically stuck for the night. Aramis immediately declared he had a small, delicate bladder and simply had to sleep in the outside position just in case._

 _That hadn't sat well with Athos who knew he was a restless sleeper at best and prone to getting up in the middle of the night when the demons from his nightmares plagued him. It was going to be bad enough that his nightmares might wake the other two Musketeers, but crawling over them to exit the bed seemed untenable. Always resourceful, he had walked over to the bed and dragged it away from the wall to the middle of the room so there were now two open sides of the bed._

 _Athos had immediately declared that he got the newly opened side of the bed, Aramis had held fast to his need to pee claim, leaving Porthos stuck in the middle. However, Porthos had realized that meant he'd have two warm bodies on either side of him, which given the draftiness of the room was going to be a blessing._

 _There were a few more decisions required before they had been able to climb into the bed. Boots on or off. Two went for off, and one on. Though he didn't know it then, Porthos now knew the two reasons Athos liked to sleep in his boots when on the road. He wasn't one for keeping his stockings well-darned and he liked to hide a small knife in his boot. But boots off had won and the moody musketeer had grudgingly removed his boots exposing his big toe, which had poked thru his stocking and his little knife, which he sheepishly palmed._

 _For their safety and comfort, they had taken off all their weapons. Aramis had insisted saying he wasn't sewing any of them up in the morning because they were accidentally skewered in the night. Once again, Athos hadn't been thrilled with the idea of being without his weapons and had placed them alongside of the bed, on the floor, within easy reach._

 _Finally, they had all crawled into the bed, in the prescribed sleeping positions, and settled for the night. The blanket, which was none-to-generous, spent a bit of time in a tug-of-war before they finally got it settled in a somewhat reasonable fashion, though both Aramis and Athos felt a bit of a draft on one side. Porthos, in the middle, was snug as a bug in a rug and was congratulating his wise choice._

 _They had made it through the midnight hour with no major mishaps other than a stray elbow or two. Aramis had taken to sleeping on his left side facing outwards and contrary to earlier predictions had found no occasion to have to leave the cozy bed. Athos was the mirrored bookend sleeping on his right side with one hand tucked under his pillow. Porthos sprawled on his back in the middle taking up an inordinate amount of mattress real-estate. However, that was better than when he rolled on his side, for then the unfortunate soul on that side would find themselves trapped in his embrace._

 _The first roll of the night had Porthos cuddling Aramis who in the throes of his own lady dream had not found it all that disturbing. The trouble had begun when Porthos had later rolled to face Athos' back and his long arm had crept over the man. They had learned two additional facts about Athos that night; he was an extremely light sleeper and the hand under his pillow was not cradling his head._

 _As the sleeping Porthos' arm draped over Athos' chest imprisoning him, all hell broke loose. Athos' right hand flew out from under his pillow wielding a knife, but it was his left hand that delivered the first blow to the Porthos' face. Athos had rolled out of the bed and crouched on the floor, knife ready to defend himself. Porthos had awoken with a roar and his thrashing dumped the unsuspecting Aramis onto the floor on the opposite side of the bed._

 _Athos had been the first to recover his wits and realize he wasn't under attack. Sheepishly, he had risen to his feet and his face turned bright red with embarrassment. Luckily, the moonlight in the room wasn't sufficient enough to show his shame to his brethren, but he could feel it. Porthos, sitting upright in the middle of the bed, hair sticking out in multiple directions, was next to recover and Athos had offered him an apologetic shrug._

 _When Aramis failed to stir from his position on the floor, Athos walked around the bed, Porthos leaned over, and they stared down at him. He was curled in a ball, on the cold hard floor, still sound asleep. Athos had prodded him with his threadbare stocking until the man sleepily opened his eyes and yawned. He was surprised to discover he was on the floor being intently stared at and the knife, which Athos had forgotten he was still holding, was pointed at him._

 _Eventually, they had gotten to the bottom of the mishap figuring out what had transpired. After employing a few tactical adjustments, they settled down to sleep again with Athos on one side, Aramis in the middle and Porthos on the far side. This way if Porthos got cuddly again Aramis would be the object of his affections, which didn't faze Aramis. This arrangement would save everyone from getting stabbed by Athos. As a further precaution, they banned any sort of weapon in the bed much to Athos' chagrin, though considering how close he had come to stabbing one of his new friends he supposed it was a necessary precaution._

D'Artagnan was chuckling by the time the tale was over as he pictured his three friends in the situation so richly described by Porthos who was an excellent story teller.

"But we are all used to each other now. In fact, Athos is a down right snuggle bunny," Porthos declared, though d'Artagnan had a sneaky suspicion Athos wouldn't concur with that description.

"Well," the youngest musketeer started out. "Based on that tale, gentlemen, I suggest we strip sleeping beauty of all his weapons."

Porthos and Aramis, having five years of experience at handling a potentially lethal sleeping Athos took up their respective positions. On the count of three, they sprang into action. Aramis sat on Athos' legs undoing the myriad of buckles that held weapons belt and baldric in place, while Porthos pinned Athos' arms and hands to his side. Other than being able to bite them, the man was rendered captive and secure. It didn't stop the unfocused green eyes from flying open and desperately scanning about trying to figure out what was occurring. However, other than his glare, which was formidable but not deadly, there was nothing he could do as he was divested of his arsenal.

The two men were efficient and soon they had all dangerous objects removed from Athos' person. Interestingly enough, Athos didn't stay awake after the ordeal but quickly drifted back off to sleep, a testament to his exhaustion.

After phase one was over, Aramis critically eyed Athos again. "It's too hot for him to be sleeping in that much clothing," Aramis stated looking at the leather boots, breeches, and doublet. "And I need to check his wounds to ensure we didn't aggravate any of them. Sit him up again, Porthos."

Undressing a sleeping Athos was also an adventure d'Artagnan learned as his two brethren prepared once again to waylay the man. Their approach this time was slightly different because he was a little less dangerous since they had divested him of all known sharp objects. Porthos raised and braced Athos in a sitting position while Aramis stood one arm's length in front of him.

Leaning forward a little, Aramis lightly slapped Athos on the cheek. "Come on Athos, wake up. We need to undress you and check your wounds."

Aramis immediately ducked back as Athos' right fist swung through the space that a second ago had been occupied by his face. When his fist failed to connect with anything, Athos tousled head lolled to the left as his eyes momentarily opened, spotted his tormentor, and then closed again. "Go away."

Aramis leaned in and tapped on the sleeping man's cheek again and Athos did another swing and a miss. "Are you done yet?" Aramis politely inquired. "Our dinner is getting cold or hot given the weather."

Athos' cracked open his eyes again. "Not hungry."

"Good, because I have no intentions of forcing you to eat."

"Good," Athos declared resoundingly shutting his eyes again.

"But," Aramis went on as he moved closer placing both hands on the tops of Athos' shoulders, "I'm going to check your wounds, which means removing your clothes."

Athos opened his weary eyes again and stared at Aramis. "Do I have a choice?"

Aramis pursed his lips, tilted his head, and glanced over Athos' unruly locks at Porthos who had a big grin on his face. "No," he said refocusing on Athos, "I think not. Either submit quietly or Porthos is going to do to you, what you do to him."

Athos knew exactly to what they were referring and a little shudder ran through his frame. Porthos had a wicked punch and he would prefer not to be on the receiving end of it. "Fine," he grumbled and started to unbutton his leather doublet.

With Athos more or less cooperating, the process went smoothly and by the time that Aramis was ready to check the injured man's wounds, Athos was half asleep again, which made things even easier. The would-be-physician was mostly pleased with only the oldest wound on the lower portion of Athos' torso, causing him a slight concern. But he thoroughly drained, washed, and wrapped the gash, then left Athos alone to sleep in peace.

The rest of their evening was simple in that they ate, played a few hands of cards, debated over the sleeping arrangements, and then went to bed. Porthos and d'Artagnan headed for the one bed, leaving Aramis to bunk with Athos. But when the musketeer saw how peacefully his brother was sleeping, he loathed the thought of disturbing him and decided to sleep in the chair with his feet propped up on the room's other chair.

In the early hours of the morning, Aramis' cramped body woke him with its aches and pains courtesy of his sleeping arrangements. Of all of them, Athos was the one that seemed to have mastered the art of sleeping in a chair, though to be fair he often did it when he was drunk so maybe that didn't count.

Aramis painstakingly stood and as he stretched his eyes roamed the room, which was awash in the early morning light. It only took a second for him to discover that Athos was missing. He breathed a little sigh of relief when he saw that only Athos' breeches and shirt were missing. His doublet, boots, and most of his weaponry were still on the floor indicating the man hadn't gone far.

Leaving his other two brethren peacefully slumbering, Aramis padded downstairs to look for the missing musketeer, easily spotting him sitting in the deserted common room at a table by the window. Aramis slid into the opposite chair and ran a hand through his unruly morning hair. "Good morning," he said cheerfully.

Athos' eyes slowly wandered to the window to scan the ever lightening sky. "I suppose it is morning." He deliberately didn't comment on the 'good' portion of the statement.

Aramis couldn't help from yawning and he shook his head at the end, trying to ward off the next one. "Been here long?"

Ever the conversationalist, Athos succinctly replied, "Long enough."

Aramis, used to his brother's ways, was not put off in the least by the short, monotone answer. "Two more days and we'll be back in Paris. Bet you can't wait."

Athos gave him a sidling glance before focusing out the window again.

Still not deterred, Aramis foraged onward. "Captain Treville will be relieved to see you as will the rest of the Garrison. For a while, it seemed as if you'd finally got your wish to escape us. But, as the saying goes, Musketeers don't die easily."

Waiting to see if that would illicit a response, Aramis paused in his rhetoric. When no words were forth coming, he picked up his soliloquy. "It is a good thing you are organized and paid your rent in advance. The Captain personally went to ensure your room and things would be waiting for you upon your return."

"I'll be sure to thank him... upon my return," Athos solemnly promised.

Aramis considered that incredibly long sentence as a victory on his part; he was getting Athos to engage and pull out of his solitary mediation. Deciding to go for broke; he reached across the table and laid a hand on Athos' uninjured forearm. "How do you feel?" He noted that Athos didn't flinch under his touch and allowed his hand to remain resting on his arm.

"Tired. Hungry." These two words were addressed to the window before he moved his gaze to focus on Aramis. "Aching. Restless."

Both men knew that was a rare moment of complete honesty on Athos' part.

"Well, the first three are fairly easy to solve. There are still a few hours of sleep to be had upstairs as well as a few scraps leftover from the dinner you missed. I have willow bark in my saddlebags and can brew you a tea to help with the aches."

Aramis paused then reached out and gently cupped Athos' bearded chin forcing the man to remain focused on him. "The last one I can only help with if you tell me what is making you restless." He dropped his hand back to the table, leaned back in his chair, and serenely waited.

Athos' serious, yet slightly distressed, green eyes searched Aramis' face, desperately looking for something. Aramis did his best to keep his expression nonjudgmental and sincere.

Swallowing hard, Athos tore his gaze away to the window again. "Well, if we are to get anymore sleep, we'd best get at it." Slowly, he rose from his chair and headed towards the stairs, refusing to meet Aramis' eyes again.

With a sigh, Aramis rose and trailed along behind. Once in the room, Athos crawled back into the bed and Aramis, foregoing the chair, joined him forcing Athos to scoot over and make room. As they settled in, Aramis reached over and laid a gentle hand on Athos' shoulder and sincerely said, "When you are ready I will listen without judgment. Nothing will ever break our bond, brother."

With that, Aramis rolled over, shut his eyes, and prayed the message got through to the suffering man beside him who was so close, yet so far away.


	38. Chapter 38

CHAPTER 38

The next morning found them hitting the road a bit later than normal. When Porthos and d'Artagnan woke and saw their companions were still asleep in the same bed without any undue signs of duress, they quietly slipped from the room to seek breakfast. When they returned with a tray of food to include some heavenly smelling fresh baked bread, Aramis roused and after a series of orchestrated stretches punctuated by the occasional groan, he joined them in their repast.

After combing a hand thru with messy hair, giving it a fluff and then a pat, which really did nothing for it, Aramis joined d'Artagnan and Porthos at the table. He had to stand as he munched on his piece of roll given the bare-bones room only had two chairs. He was his usual chirpy, disgustingly cheerful morning self, which never ceased to both amaze and annoy his companions. Even after a hard night of drinking, Aramis could awake the next morn and quickly find goodness in the world.

Also awake, but sitting on the bed was the anti-Aramis, who ran a hand through his messy hair. But while Aramis' goal had been to try to make himself presentable, Athos' only aim was to get his wayward waves out of his eyes. Bleary-eyedly, he peered about the room to determine what his brothers were doing.

Cheerful was certainly not the word to describe Athos' morning demeanor; sullen was the adjective that came to mind. His companions had learned it was best to leave Athos alone and let him come into the morning on his own terms. Help would not be welcome or appreciated and could be downright dangerous for the health of the offer.

Though Athos, especially after a night of heavy drinking, often looked like a train wreck, there was one thing for sure, he was always dangerous. They had all seen him hungover, retching in a bucket, barely able to stand and if threatened, within the blink of an eye had his poor attacker at sword point. It wasn't elegant, but even at his worse Athos was better than most. So his brethren had learned to give him his space in the morning to avoid any undue unpleasantness.

Athos sat on the side of the bed, feet flat on the floor, hands slack in his lap with his head bowed. D'Artagnan, deciding to brave the lion's den, grabbed a fresh, baked roll from the basket, stood and cautiously approached Athos. Holding the bread out at arm's length like a peace offering, he waved it close to Athos' downcast face. After a moment by which time the lovely smell had to have reached Athos' olfactory receptors, a hand slowly reached out and accepted the proffered roll. With a small triumphant smile, the lad returned to the table to continue on his own repast.

A few bites of the roll disappeared before Athos' tousled head lifted and his green eyes cautiously greeted his surroundings. In the normal world, it would have been customary to offer a greeting and inquire as to ones well-being but Athos was anything but normal when it came to certain social morning conventions. They had all wondered if, as a child, he had been as grumpy in the morning or if this was a more adult induced behavior. Again, having learned from past experience that pleasant morning repartee would not be forthcoming, the three musketeers did what they always did ignored Athos until he chose to engage them.

Finally, the sullen musketeer stood and stretched with Aramis observing from the corner of his eye in an attempted to assess how the man was feeling this morning without directly asking. The grimaces that kept appearing on Athos' bearded face told him pretty much everything he needed to know; the man was sore.

When Athos wandered in the general direction of the table, Aramis innocently asked, "Thirsty? I could brew you a quick cup of tea."

Both men knew that tea would contain willow bark. Athos eyes narrowed, telling Aramis the message had been received but not appreciated. However, the courtly man responded in a neutral voice, "No. Thank you. Water is fine."

The words were delivered in the same cadence and timbre that Athos had used when addressing the Queen when she had asked him if he would like some more of the fish she had cooked. To be honest, 'cook' wasn't quite the right word to describe the Queen's effort. Destroyed, decimated, charred, burnt, massacre where all more accurate terms. Apparently, Aramis' offer of a painkiller wasn't anymore appreciated then the Queen's offer of seconds of her cooking.

Porthos silently handed him a mug of water, which Athos swiftly downed before placing the mug on the table and walking back to where his clothes and weapons lay on the floor. Dressing, buckling on his weapons, and lastly shoving his hat on his head, he turned and looked expectantly at his fellow Musketeers, his expression clearly showed he was wondering why they were still sitting at the table leisurely enjoying their food. With a small dissatisfied grunt in their direction, he strode to the door and flung it open. "I'll be with the horses...waiting...when you are done." The door slammed resolutely behind him as he exited the room.

"I guess he is ready to go," Aramis said evenhandedly as he unhurriedly reached for another roll.

D'Artagnan eyed the still vibrating door before turning back to his companions. "Will he actually wait? Or take off without us."

That statement gave them all pause as the boy had a valid point. Porthos rose from the table, brushing a few stray crumbs from his doublet. "I'm done. I'll go babysit him."

"There. That's settled," Aramis happily declared as he reached for a small jar of preserves. "Let us finish our meal in a civilized manner." he said as he spread the condiment on his roll before taking a satisfying bite. "For a Comte, he does seem to be lacking in social graces at times, doesn't he."

A little while later d'Artagnan asked Aramis, "Are you ready to go?"

"Yes," he said as he rose and brushed a few crumble aside.

Athos was sitting on his horse waiting for them. Their horses were also saddled and standing in the courtyard. The expression on Porthos' face clearly indicated whatever had happened outside, while they were finishing their breakfast, hadn't amused the street-smart musketeer.

"I thought perhaps the two of you got lost," Athos commented on their tardiness. Without waiting for a reply, he rode off trusting his brothers to catch up.


	39. Chapter 39

CHAPTER 39

His brothers could see Athos' mood darkening as they rode along the dirt track heading back towards Paris. The man was keeping his horse slightly askew from the rest of them, making it pretty clear he didn't relish their company. After they had each made a few attempts to draw him out, which were politely and thoroughly rebuffed, they gave up and let the man brood in silence.

Unbeknownst to his brothers, Athos was doing more than his normal level of brooding; the musketeer was doing a full out castration of his mind and soul for the death of those five people at the Marquis Lemione's estate. He kept piling more and more blame and guilt on his soul for causing their demise. If only he had fought harder they might still be alive. It was his personal failure to be the best that had brought about their deaths.

His thoughts drifted to his childhood and his father who was always chastising him for not being the model son of a nobleman. The Comte had expected a perfect son and was woefully disappointed in the awkward boy who wanted to please, but often found his uncoordinated body uncooperative. As a child, Athos had been prone to awkwardness. His mind was sharp, easily able to absorb the multitude of lessons he was expected to learn. But when it came time to execute what his mind knew, he got tongue tied and literally tripped over his own feet, unable to be the regal and dignified son his father required of him. To make matters worse, he was his own worst enemy. Even if he knew what to do he would start doubting, feeling he was not measuring up to his father's standards and soon it would become a self-fulfilling prophecy.

His younger sibling, Thomas, was the bright, sunny child who was quick to smile, eager to please, abounding with natural grace, and possessing the silver tongue of a poet. Within five minutes of meeting someone, even as a small boy, Thomas easily won them over and had them eating out of his hand. His charm and elegance made his older brother seem even more like a lout.

As a young boy, Athos had been so eager to please his father that he threw his body and soul into everything he did, which often led to disastrous results. Wanting to make his father proud, he would try to do things he felt expected of him for which he was not yet ready. Many of his childhood disasters, which often resulted in cuts, bruises and broken bones, were because he pushed himself beyond his current capabilities. Even when he partially succeeded, but not to his father's harsh standards, there was no praise for doing his best. Instead, he was scolded, lectured and shunned by the man whose approval he so desperately sought. Athos spent many a dark night silently crying in the stable and cursing himself for not being the man his father expected.

As he grew older and his body and mind finally synched with each other, he learned to master his movement. A sword master had seen the natural talent the boy had with a blade and cultivated that into a finely honed skill. His riding, which had always been decent, became even better as he figured out how to control his limbs; he had a natural seat and an innate sense for bringing the best out of any horse.

He remained somewhat socially awkward, but learned to cover that by appearing aloof and standoffish. People took it as his right and privilege, as the first son of one of the noblest families in France, to act as their better. Few knew it was really a cover for an extremely uncomfortable man. However, all these changes were too late and his father could never see past the disappointing child he had been to the respectable young man into which he had grown. Thomas remained everyone's favorite, and Athos merely tolerated because of the birth order; people might have liked Thomas better, but Athos was still slated to be the next Comte de la Fere.

And what a mess he had made of being a Comte, after his father's untimely death. On his watch Thomas had died, murdered by his thieving and adulteress wife, Catherine's future had been destroyed, and the estate and her people driven to the brink of ruin. His father had been right, he was a failure.

Athos remembered after his mother's death when his father's temper had eroded either further, the harsh words he had spoken to his eldest son. His father had told him he was worthless and it would have been a blessing if Athos died and the estate went to Thomas. Within days of uttering those brutal words, Athos' father had died, never having a chance to retract those bitter words. Yet, considering how his life had turned out, his father was right. Athos had failed at his duty. That was one of the reasons being a Musketeer was so important to Athos; he felt, in a small way, it made up for his failure to his family. He didn't do his duty there, but maybe he could do his duty for his King and country.

Thinking over those words his father had uttered, the life he had led, and the horrible things he believed were his fault, Athos came to the conclusion his father was right. It would have been better if he had died. He had caused the death of so many, yet his miserable soul was still walking the earth. It was this loathing frame of mind that stayed with him as he rode throughout the day.

Late afternoon found them riding along the edge of the forest with Athos about twenty paces in front of the other three riders. They were moving at an easy canter when suddenly Athos' horse's front feet dropped into a hidden hole and the animal went down with a sickening snap and thud.

Instinctively, Athos threw his body from the horse to avoid being crushed by the falling animal. The breath was driven from his lungs as he hit the ground hard, and at first he didn't register the men running out from the forest yelling and banishing weapons.

Porthos, Aramis, and D'Artagnan were instantly off their horses and running towards the attacking men, brandishing their swords and muskets. While the Musketeers were outnumbered, the highwaymen were not properly armed; none had guns and only a few had swords. What made them dangerous adversaries were the metal chains they were wielding. The six foot lengths of cruel iron whipped around the legs, arms, torsos and weapons of the Musketeers, making it hard to fight; the lengths of the chains had a longer reach than the Musketeer's swords. They used their pistols to bring down four of their foes, leaving four still standing.

One of the bandits with a chain ran to were Athos lay on the ground swinging his heavy chain at the prone man. At the last second with only inches to spare, Athos rolled to the side out of reach before scrambling to his feet. As he drew his sword from its' scabbard, the chain whipped forth again, catching his arm and causing him to drop the weapon on the grass. As he attempted to retrieve the fallen weapon, the chain snapped catching his wounded side. His felt a hot, wetness run down his torso as he was forced to scramble backwards in an attempt to keep out of the reach of the cruel iron links.

He did a quick scan of the battlefield and saw Porthos on his back on the ground with a chain tangled about his legs, d'Artagnan, weapon-less clutching his right arm to his chest in pain and both men had bandits harassing them. Aramis seemed to be the only one unscathed at the moment, and somehow holding two loaded pistols. Two shots rang out and the men dogging Porthos and D'Artagnan soon lay dead on the ground.

That left two bandits still on their feet, one was approaching Athos again, and the other was sneaking up behind Aramis.

"Behind you!" Athos shouted at Aramis, taking his concentration off his own stalker who used the lapse as an opportunity to strike out with his chain again. The links caught Athos on his upper thigh causing the Musketeer's leg to buckle. Athos fell to the ground as the man advanced on him.

Waves of pain wracked his injured body as Athos frantically tried to scramble to his feet, but his leg gave out and he landed back on the ground again. The chain snaked forth again and a desperate Athos made a grab for it as it slashed into his torso. Surprisingly, he secured a firm hold on it. However, he knew it was only a matter of time before it was ripped from his grasp; the standing bandit had a much better leverage point than he did on his butt on the ground.

Athos felt the links slowly being pulled across the palm of his hand as the bandit made progress on retrieving his chain. Gritting his teeth, Athos tried to halt the progress but was unable. At the point when his portion of the chain was about to leave Athos' bloody, torn hands, the point of a sword suddenly burst forth from his opponents stomach. As the bandit began to fall forward, Athos had the presence of mind to scoot sideway out of the way so the dead man fell next to, not on top of him. With the bandit no longer blocking his view, he discovered his savior was d'Artagnan who holding a bloody rapier in his hand.

The boy quickly moved next to Athos and knelt on the ground. "Are you alright?" he asked, his voice tinged with concern for his mentor.

Athos didn't immediately answer, but instead struggled to sit up and scan the area around them for any additional threats. He saw Aramis dispatch the last of the bandits with a decisive sword thrust to the chest. After ensuring the man was dead, Aramis moved to where Porthos lay on the ground and began examining his legs.

"Athos!" d'Artagnan repeated sharply to draw the man's attention back on him.

The Musketeer's eyes slid from his other brothers, to his youngest one, noting d'Artagnan was cradling his left wrist supportively against his belly. "You're hurt," he accused the boy as if he had been hiding something. "How bad is it?"

Even sitting on the ground, Athos managed to convey such a demanding presence that d'Artagnan found himself responding even though the man had never answer his inquiry. "A simple sprain. And it's not my sword hand."

"A good swordsman should be able to use either hand, though admittedly, one hand will probably have a higher degree of accuracy," Athos lectured from his seated position on the grass.

"Duly noted," d'Artagnan replied with a small tilt of his head and a little smirk at Athos turning this into a teaching lesson. "I shall strive harder to practice with both hands."

"Yes, you shall. I will personally see to it once you are thoroughly healed."

D'Artagnan had been discreetly scanning Athos' body while his mentor was imparting his wisdom. "And of course, after you are thoroughly healed too."

Athos ignored him as he fumbled, trying to stand up. "I am fine," he declared upon finally achieving a vertical status.

"Then what is that?" d'Artagnan fingertip pointed to a blossoming red stain on the lower portion of Athos' shirt that was visible because his leather doublet had been unbutton in deference to the heat.

As Athos dropped his head to follow d'Artagnan's finger, the world started spinning causing him to lose his balance and nearly pitch face first into the ground. Only the quick steadying hand from the younger man averted the disaster.

Pretending he hadn't almost toppled over, Athos shook off the supportive hand with an annoyed glare. "That is from days ago," he haughtily, yet dismissively, informed the younger man.

"No. It's fresh and it's spreading," d'Artagnan countered, observing the growing stain.

This time Athos merely glanced downward with his eyes, not wanting to take a chance on causing lightheadedness again. The damn whelp was right. The stain was growing larger so he shifted his defensive tactics. "The tip of the chain was no doubt sharp and simply scored my side. Not even worth mentioning to Aramis."

"What's not worth mentioning to me?" Aramis asked as he strolled over to where Athos and d'Artagnan stood conversing.

D'Artagnan had all intentions of ratting out Athos, but the man beat him. "d'Artagnan has injured his wrist. Might be broken," Athos said gravely, as he gestured towards the boy's cradled wrist.

As Athos intended, Aramis immediately focused his attention on the boy and Athos took advantage of not being in the spotlight and covertly buttoning up his doublet to cover the red stain on his shirt.

"It's just a mild sprain," Aramis declared after finishing his examination and turning to face Athos, who stood there cooly as if he hadn't a care in the world. "A few days of keeping it immobile and resting it and all will be well."

"That is indeed good news." Over Aramis' shoulder, he saw d'Artagnan's eyes narrowing at his buttoned black doublet and Athos sent a warning glare at the boy who was about to open his mouth.

Aramis knew there was some sub-text going on around him, so he changed his position so he could simultaneously observe both of his brothers.

"How is Porthos?" Athos inquired politely, though his eyes never left d'Artagnan's face, almost as if they were being used to silence the boy, which they were.

"His right leg was wrenched by the chain. His ankle is sprained, as is the knee. However, if he keeps off it, I believe he too, will make a full recovery."

Athos quickly spoke, not giving d'Artagnan and opportunity to intervene. "Those chains were quite the lethal weapon."

D'Artagnan's mouth snapped shut as Aramis began to speak again. "Yes. Quite. I remember the bandits that were working for Paul Meunière. They too used chains. I caught one in the back. It was a most unpleasant experience. Athos..." But he never finished his thoughts, as a horse neighed with distress.

Athos immediately moved away from his brothers towards the source of the noise.

"D'Artagnan. Go help Porthos to his feet." The boy opened his mouth to protest, but Aramis held up a hand and halted him. "I know Athos is injured. I'll take care of it." The boy smiled in genuine gratitude. "Now go."

As d'Artagnan moved over to where Porthos lay on the grass, Aramis walked over to where Athos was kneeling in the dirt next to his horse's head, stroking the animal's face. It was obvious the poor beast had broken both front legs when he unfortunately plunged into the hole the bandits had dug as a trap.

Athos smoothed the horse's forelock as he muttered to the animal. "You were a faithful companion, even if you were at times a bit ill-mannered." His voice caught in his throat as the pain-filled, big, brown eye focused on him. A tear slid down his face knowing what he had to do. Even if it was a merciful act, it shouldn't have had to occur. "If it is any consolation," he told the gelding as he continued to stroke its' cheek, "those that dug that hole and did this to you are dead."

The horse gave a grunt of pain and Athos gave it a final stroke before rising a bit unsteadily to his feet. His thigh and side were protesting all the movement but he had a responsibility and duty to carry out.

Aramis offered a steadying hand on Athos' forearm as he rose. "I can do it, if you prefer," he kindly offered.

Vehemently, Athos shook his head pulling free from Aramis' grasp and walking to the side of the horse. "This was my doing and therefore my duty." His voice was flat and devoid of emotion, even though the tracks of his tears were still visible on his cheeks. He withdrew his pistol from its holder on his saddle before carefully checking it over. A misfire now would be a great injustice to the suffering animal.

Moving back to the horse's head, the big brown eye tracked him making Athos swallow hard. Leaning over one last time, he gave the animal a final stroke, whispering, "I'm sorry."

Straightening, he held out his arm and sighted down the weapon. The shot rang out, echoing thru the air as the horse drew its' last breath. Athos' arm dropped lifelessly to his side as the man's head bowed.

Aramis moved to his grieving brother's side and enveloped him in a hug. "You did what had to be done."

Aramis had meant his words as a comfort, but that was not how they were received. Athos pushed away and hastily wiped the back of his hand across his wet eyes. "Yes," he said staring straight at Aramis. "I am good at doing what must be done," he spat viciously. "Just ask my wife."

"Athos, I didn't mean it like that," Aramis apologized but Athos' face had already grown hard and closed.

"We need to move on, if we are to reach the inn before dark. I imagine Porthos and d'Artagnan, given their injuries, would rest better indoors." He glanced about the area seeing that the other two Musketeers had made it over to stand by their mounts. He glanced over his shoulder at the dead horse that had been his faithful mount. When he spoke, his voice was tight with emotion again. "I'll ride with you, so as not to aggravate Porthos' or d'Artagnan's injuries."

"And yours?" Aramis demanded, stepping directly in front of Athos, only a few hand-spans separating them. Green and brown eyes clashed in a battle of wills, neither side giving an inch.

Athos started to open his mouth but Aramis swiftly cut him off. "I swear Athos, if you say you are fine..."

"You'll punch me so hard I'll beg you to kick me?" Athos caught one side of his lower lip in his teeth in pain. He sighed as his eyes softened. "Please. Let it go. For now," he pleaded.

Aramis stepped back with a slight tilt of his head. "Let's go get my horse. Mount up boys!" he yelled over at Porthos and d'Artagnan. "That is unless you want to be sleeping on the cold, hard ground tonight."

"It isn't cold. It hot," Porthos reminded him.

"Yes. But I felt the need for two descriptors."

"Hot, humid, sweltering, boiling, burning, scorching, sultry," Porthos suggested helpfully.

"Thank you. I will keep all those excellent choices in mind for next time. Do you need assistance mounting?" Aramis innocently inquired, which earned him a fierce scowl from Porthos.

"It's my right leg that is sore, not my left." To prove his point, he placed his foot in the stirrup and swung onboard, albeit a tad clumsily.

Grabbing the reins of his own stallion, Aramis led him over to where Athos was standing after having gathered his belongings from his deceased mount. Athos motioned d'Artagnan over and swung the saddle bags on the rear of his horse. One gun he handed to the boy to store in his saddle holder and the other he clipped to the back of his weapons belt.

After the gear was stowed properly, d'Artagnan mounted his horse, which left Athos and Aramis on the ground.

"Don't!" Athos warned, holding a hand in the air to stop Aramis' forthcoming comment. "I don't need assistance, either," he firmly declared.

With a subtle grin, Aramis sprang on his horse then looked expectantly at Athos who was still on the ground, though as requested, he kept his mouth firmly shut. The man on the ground cocked his head and tilted an eyebrow at the left stirrup where Aramis' foot resided. "Sorry," Aramis apologized as he removed his foot, moving it forward out of the way.

Like ripping-off a bandage stuck to a wound, this wasn't going to be a pleasant event, but going at it slowly wouldn't make it any less painful. Gritting his teeth, Athos bent his knee, raised his leg, and stuck his booted toes in the left-hand stirrup. As he sprang upwards, he reached over Aramis' leg to secure one hand on the pommel and the other on the cantle. With a bit of a 'humph' he settled on the horse's back, shifting his weight slightly too either side until he felt centered. He'd let go of the pommel as he settled in, keeping only his left hand on the high cantle.

"I would not be offended, if you wanted to secure a hold around my waist, though I must warn you I am a touch ticklish." Lowering his voice to a sly whisper, Aramis added, "The ladies love that."

Athos was rethinking these riding arrangements, when Aramis nudged his horse in the ribs moving him into an easy walk.

"Would you like to use the stirrups?" Aramis innocently asked his co-rider. "I have been told I have an excellent seat. Firm and sturdy."

'Not if I smack you in the head and push you off,' Athos thought but he kept his comments to a small, "No... thank you...I'm good."

"Ah yes," Aramis reminisced about another time he heard his brother use a similar polite lie. "Surely, riding tandem with me for a few miles isn't as bad as choking down the Queen's cooking."

Athos allowed a small snort to escape his lips. "I seem to recall you told her it was delicious."

"I was being polite. I like to be...polite," and a wordless thought passed between the two men at another 'politeness' that had occurred later that night, one that could have them all hanging from a noose. After that, conversation died out as each man concentrated on making it to the inn.

It was a long and hot ride not made any better by the injuries they were sporting. After a while, Athos did take Aramis up on is offer as he wrapped his arms about the man's waist. Aramis glanced down at Athos' blood encrusted hands clinging to his waist and vowed when they stopped for the night, he would clean them properly to ward off infection.

Aramis was very relieved when the inn finally came into view. Porthos and d'Artagnan were pale and he knew they were in pain though neither would ever admit it. Though he couldn't see Athos, he could feel the heat emanating from his skin, as he rested he upper body against him and knew his brother' fever had returned. He had a feeling it was going to be a long night.


	40. Chapter 40

CHAPTER 40

When they finally arrived at their lodgings for the night, the sun had almost sunk below the horizon. They were all enormously relieved to finally stop and dismount, though the term dismount would be generous in the case of Porthos and Athos. The former did a one legged slide down the side of his horse and only the desperate clutching of the saddle's leather straps kept him from toppling over when he hit the ground. The latter's descent was equally ungraceful as he tumbled down the back quarter of the horse. Aramis swore, though Athos empathetically denied that he grabbed the horse' black tail for support.

The inn, small and simple, appeared clean and the elderly proprietors, pleasant. To the right of the main structure was a stable and Athos declared he would take care of the horses, while Aramis and d'Artagnan got Porthos inside and settled. It was quite clear Athos wasn't pleased when Aramis overrode his orders, declaring that d'Artagnan would also assist with the horses and that he didn't need help getting Porthos inside. The fact that Aramis was practically laughing as he countermanded Athos' ludicrous orders only served to make Athos' mood darker. It was undeniably apparent to his companions that Athos' hand on the side of the horse's neck wasn't there to give the deserving beast a nice scratch, but rather was keeping the exhausted musketeer from plunging to the ground. How the stubborn man thought he was going to brush and care for the three animals was unfathomable to his brethren.

D'Artagnan gathered the reins of his and Porthos' horse in his good hand and began walking the fatigued animals to the stable. Aramis put a supporting shoulder under Porthos' good arm and they slowly limped their way inside the inn. Athos muttered and mumbled about insubordination under his breath, as he grabbed the reins of Aramis' stallion and lead him through the open stable door.

"Don't give me any grief tonight, Monsieur," he formally addressed the horse in a pseudo-whisper. "I am not in the mood to be avoiding your snapping teeth or your restless hooves. Aramis and Jacque may put up with your nonsense, but rest assured I will not."

The smirk on d'Artagnan's face was a dead giveaway he had heard Athos' conversation with the horse, but he was smart enough only to smirk and not provide commentary. The scowl and the glare Athos pinned on the boy as he led the horse past him into a stall, reinforced the idea in d'Artagnan's mind that keeping silent that was a wise decision. Idle hands are the devils work, his granny used to say, so he focused his attention on currying his horse with his good hand.

D'Artagnan occasionally let his eyes wander over to where Athos was grooming Aramis' horse, mostly to ensure the man was still upright. It seemed the beast had taken Athos' advice to heart and was being quiet and respectable. Athos' energy was seriously flagging as he groomed, fed and watered the beast; then turned his eyes towards Porthos' horse, which still needed to be brushed. Flip was a large animal and at the moment the horse seemed like an un-scalable mountain.

D'Artagnan shook a measure of grain into his horse's trough as he glanced over at Athos, who was staring at Flip in despondency. "I'll take one side, you take the other," he suggested, as he placed the grain scoop back in the bin.

A grateful look crossed Athos' face, though he quickly schooled his features back into neutrality. "If you insist."

D'Artagnan hid a smile of his own at Athos' stubbornness in admitting he needed help. "I do insist." Grabbing a brush, he began rubbing down Flip's left side.

Athos moved to the other side, brushing the travel dirt from the animal's coat.

"Are you planning on telling Aramis about your injuries?" the younger man questioned, as he lifted Flip's mane to brush under it.

"He knows about them," Athos succinctly replied. His tone indicated the conversation was over, but d'Artagnan chose to ignore the not-so-subtle hint.

"Does he know you tore open the one on your left side, and that its been steadily bleeding since we left the bandits?" d'Artagnan moved to groom the horse's chest so he could watch Athos' reaction. He caught Athos flinching and peering down at his side.

However, Athos quickly recovered his aplomb. "If it had been steadily bleeding, as you said, I'd be dead by now. Clearly, I'm not."

D'Artagnan halted in his brushing and looked around the horse's head at Athos. "Are you sure that you aren't?"

Feeling the conversation was escaping him, Athos stopped for a moment. "Aren't what?"

"Dead."

Athos stood there staring at the boy, baffled. "No. I don't think so. I think hell is going to be more unpleasant and I don't expect to see you, Aramis or Porthos there." He paused for a moment of contemplation. "At least not all of you," he amended.

D'Artagnan was pretty sure which of the three of them Athos thought would be joining him in hell and why, but he let it go. "Well," d'Artagnan remarked as he began to brush the horse's face again. "If you don't have Aramis take care of it tonight, by morning you might be dead. Even a small leak in a boat will eventually sink it."

"What does a farm boy know about boats?" Athos questioned trying to derail the conversation, as he started brushing Flip's shoulder.

"Probably as much as a Comte knows about medical issues," the Gascon youth parried.

Athos halted his strokes to stare at d'Artagnan, who quirked an eyebrow at him from under his straggly hair. "I'll have Aramis take a look at it, when we go inside."

"That's all I'm asking for," d'Artagnan replied evenly before heading off to get a bucket of water for the horse's stall.

"Well you have a funny way of asking," Athos muttered sarcastically as he finished grooming his side of Flip.

D'Artagnan filled the water and food troughs, while Athos put the grooming tools away, then they headed out into the deepening twilight towards the inn. The common area was empty, so they headed upstairs to their room, where Aramis had left the door ajar. Upon entering, they saw Porthos in one bed, his back propped up against the wall, and his left leg elevated on a stack of pillows. Aramis was in the process of handing him a plate of food, which had obviously come from the items on the rooms only table.

"The inn-keeper said it was plain but filling," Aramis told them as he waved to the food on the table.

"I'm starving. I could eat a horse," then d'Artagnan cringed as he glanced over at Athos. "Sorry." The older man inclined his head slightly to show the apology was accepted.

Porthos took the plate from Aramis and tried a mouthful. "It's good," he mumbled around the food.

D'Artagnan moved eagerly to the table and commenced one-handedly piling food on his plate.

As Aramis moved towards the table, he smiled playfully at Athos. "Will you being eating first? Or letting me check that wound?" As Athos started to open his mouth, Aramis cut him off. "And the correct answer is: Take care of my wound, Aramis dear."

Athos glowered but unbuckled his sword belt and laid it on the floor near the empty bed, before starting on his leather doublet. Aramis watched with amusement as the pigheaded man refused to ask for assistance, clearly struggling with the row of buttons. By the time he got that last one undone, and shrugged out of the doublet, he was forced to sit on the edge of the bed to recover.

"Would you like help getting the shirt off?" Aramis asked as he took a step forward, bemused by the sheer stubbornness of Athos. He received such a look in reply that he raised his hands in atonement and hastily stepped back. Observing the red blood stain on the shirt, Aramis felt the sudden urgent need to point it out to Athos, even though he knew Athos was fully aware of its' existence. "There is a big, red stain on the lower left side of that shirt."

Athos' struggle to get the shirt over his head ceased for a moment, and he paused to give Aramis the biggest, meanest scowl he could muster, which of course didn't faze the man at all.

"You might want to mention that to your laundress when we get back to Paris. It will need special attention."

"Thank you," Athos replied in a strained, but polite voice. "I'll keep that in mind."

It was a good thing Porthos and d'Artagnan had full plates of food to keep their mouths busy, or else they would have been rolling on the floor in laughter at Aramis' baiting of Athos.

Cocking his head to the side, Aramis studied the stain, which was now about midway up Athos' torso as he continued to struggle to pull the shirt off. "Blood is one of the toughest stains to get out, or at least that is what I'm told."

The shirt stopped its upward inching as a muffled voice rose from within it, irritation evident in every word. "Are you enjoying yourself?"

Athos didn't have to see Aramis' face to know there was an ear-to-ear grin on it as he answered, "Immensely. Do you require my assistance yet, Athos?"

"No!"

The shirt began its tediously slow upward movement again, gaining a few inches, before it came to a grinding halt. Athos gave a tremendous tug, trying to break it loose from whatever was impeding it, using his left arm. That unintentionally put a huge strain on the wound under his ribs.

A sharp intake of breath was heard from inside the shirt, followed by some imaginative cursing. After a minute or so, the muffled voice grew silent. Aramis, ever a student of human nature, or at least Athos' nature; waited, knowing it was only a matter of time now. He plucked a grape from the stem of the bunch residing in a bowl on the table, and rolled it around between his fingertips.

"Aramis," a genteel voice called out from inside the stuck shirt. "Your assistance would be appreciated."

Aramis tossed the grape in his mouth, chewed and swallowed before replying. "Appreciated?" he prodded.

"Greatly appreciated," the voice amended, courteously, well mostly.

"But of course," he said, moving over to the bed. "You only needed to ask." Grasping the hem of the shirt, he drew it the rest of the way over Athos' head. "There now. Was that so difficult?" Both men knew it wasn't the removal of the shirt that was being questioned, though Athos' only answer was to look sheepishly away, which was answer enough.

Aramis became all business as he bent to examine the red, stained linen wrapped around Athos' midsection. Gingerly, he tried to work the bandage free, but an uncensored hiss by Athos made him halt. "It's dried to the wound." Straightening, he walked back to the table and poured a glass of wine before bringing it over to Athos. "You'll need this. I wish it were stronger."

To his surprise, Athos waved the glass of vino away.

"Athos, this is not time for heroics. Trust me; getting that bandage off is going to be very unpleasant."

Athos raised his head, his sober green eyes seeking out Aramis. "Then knock me out. Like we do to Porthos."

Porthos' head shot up at that remark. "So that's why my jaw hurts every time I get stitched up. Thought it was odd." His eyes narrowed as he scanned his three comrades. "Who punches me?"

"Not now, Porthos," Aramis chided before turning his attention back on Athos. "I can't do it. I'll be of no use if I injure my hand."

"That's a good point," Porthos butted in, still intent on figuring out who was the knockout artist. "That means it is either..."

D'Artagnan suddenly realized he was being intently gazed upon by Athos and Aramis and he stuttered, "No. Not me!"

"But it has to be, dear boy," Aramis explained. "I can't risk it, Porthos is injured..."

"So am I," d'Artagnan whined as he held his left wrist aloft.

"You have two hands," Aramis smoothly pointed out as he continued. "And you surely can't expect Athos to knock himself out?"

"Why not?" d'Artagnan desperately countered. "He's done it before."

"Never on purpose, I assure you," Athos wryly interjected.

"...and this has been happening since before the whelp joined us, so," Porthos followed his line of reasoning to its logical conclusion, "that means you, Athos, is the one who's been punching me!"

Exasperated, Aramis looked over his shoulder at Porthos and said, "Yes, yes. Athos clobbers you in the chin when you are injured, so I can sew you up. There, are you happy now?"

Porthos snarled a little. "Not sure happy is the right word. Bring him over here." He pointed a finger at Athos, who was none-to-happy that Porthos' suspicions had been confirmed. "I'll return the favor," he finished as he noisily cracked his knuckles.

"Don't be ridiculous," Aramis scolded, as he turned back to Athos. "Yes, he could walk over there so you can knock him out, but then I will be required to drag him back here to sew him up. I'm tired and that is too much work. No, d'Artagnan will render him unconscious right here in this bed. No muss. No fuss."

The only person in the room who seemed content with that solution was Aramis. Porthos was sulking because he couldn't 'repay' the favor to Athos, for all the times the man had obviously punched him. D'Artagnan appeared green about the gills, being asked to intentionally hit his friend and mentor. And Athos appeared to be reconsidering his earlier refusal of wine.

He had been sober for more than two months, had found it liberating, and had made a small vow to try not to use wine to solve all his problems. Though at the moment, he was tempted to disavow that vow. However, before he could open his lips to ask for the cup of wine, D'Artagnan swiftly rose from the table, crossed the room, and slammed his fist into the side of Athos' jaw, immediately causing the man to crumble into a boneless mass of the bed.

"Well done!" Aramis clapped the boy on the shoulder, as he walked back to the table. "Surprise is the key."

"Yeah? Just make sure no one leaves me alone with him when he wakes up. I fear he may not be happy." D'Artagnan grumbled as he went back to eating his supper.

Aramis went in search of the innkeeper to request clean hot and cold water before he set about undoing the bandages. Even after soaking them and trying to be as gentle as possible, he could see Athos was feeling some pain by the way he flinched, even though he was unconscious.

When he got the last layer off and was able to see the wound, his breath caught in his throat.

Porthos and D'Artagnan heard the sound and their guts clenched. "How bad is it?" Porthos asked from his bed, unable to see.

The wound's edges were angry red and pockets of pus dotted the line, which explained the fever Athos couldn't shake. On the plus side, there didn't seem to be any lines extending out from the area to indicate a spread of infection.

"It's infected, but not spreading," Aramis answered, as he peered closely at the slash. "It will need to be drained, cleaned, and wrapped, but I don't think I will stitch it. It will drain better if I don't."

It took the better part of an hour for Aramis to be satisfied he had done all he could for the wound. A wave of physical and mental exhaustion washed over him and he was happy to simply sit at the table and eat a light meal. They had set some food aside for Athos, on the off chance that he woke, and could be persuaded to eat. The man's ribs were becoming quite visible from his ordeal.

When it came time to settle for the night, Aramis directed that d'Artagnan bunk with Porthos. The boy was not a restless sleeper and Aramis figured they would make out fine together. He debated whether he should try to sleep with Athos, who had regained consciousness for a few minutes, before lapsing into sleep. The bed was against a wall, and Athos was already occupying the outer edge of the mattress; meaning that Aramis would have to climb over him to get to the open portion. That seemed like too much work, so he repositioned one of the chairs from the table so he could rest his feet on the foot board of the bed, folded his arms, and dropped his head to his chest. It wasn't the first time he had slept in a chair and his body knew what to do; he was asleep in no time.


	41. Chapter 41

CHAPTER 41

 _The wooden splinters of the post he was tied do were digging into the tender flesh of his back and wrists, which were snugly secured behind the post. His legs were also shackled and all the ropes securing him were so tight that they were causing rivulets of blood to trickle down his skin. The post was on top of a small platform, raising him four feet into the air. A mist shrouded the area making visibility beyond a ten foot radius impossible._

 _There was a stirring on the outer edge of the mist and he squinted trying to identify what was moving towards him. As the figure broke free of the vapor, Athos identified it as a young male. The form drew closer and Athos gasped, recognizing the servant boy he had met during his imprisonment; the one that had been put to death by the Vicomte Lemione because Athos had refused to fight._

 _Before his mind could even began to register what was happening, another figure emerged from the mist, then another, then two more until four bodies were shambling towards him. Athos knew their faces looked vaguely familiar but it took a moment for his bewildered mind to make the connection. These four were the ones killed in the grove after he had escaped from the prison. Sweat began dripping down his face and his heart raced as he gazed upon these apparitions._

 _As they drew closer to the platform upon which he was shackled, he heard them chanting the same phrase and his blood ran cold when the indistinct words finally became four recognizable ones. "This is your doing!" The words that his wife had uttered to him when she set him and his fellow Musketeers up to die in the Rue Saint-Jacques._

 _When each person reached the edge of the platform, they spread out and stood staring up at him, chanting. His eyes were torn from these five spirits, back to the edge of the mist, as more figures emerged._

 _When he could finally identify the next person, an anguished cry escaped his lips. "Thomas!"_

 _The bodies kept coming. Gallagher, the mercenary floated out of the fog. Remy, the smith. They began to stack up around the bottom of the platform to which he was tied. More and more dead people came out of the mist, all chanting "This is your doing!" His parents, bandits, soldiers, and innocents caught in the cross-fire of street battles. They all had one thing in common. He, his mind yelled at him, one way or another had caused their deaths._

 _They piled around the edge of the platform until he was surrounded by a sea of bodies. An image formed in his mind of the pyre that was built to burn the Comtesse de Larroque as a witch. In this case, the humanity surrounding him played the role of the firewood and he, the witch._

 _It was as if his thought had triggered the action, as the people encircling him suddenly burst in flames. Horrified, he screamed and struggled against his bonds, but he couldn't break free. His voice grew hoarse from screaming and rivulets of red blood dripped quicker down where his bonds tore at his flesh. One by one the people were consumed by the inferno until the now mute Athos stood alone, encompassed by piles of grey ashes._

 _Raising his tear stained face, his eyes sought the edge of the mist where he detected more movement. His limbs began to tremble and he mouthed "No!" as three new figures emerged from the vapors._

 _"No. Please no. You're alive," he croaked, his voice coarse and broken._

 _The men kept slowly coming, shuffling through the ashes until they reached the edge of the platform._

 _Athos' eyes were filled with pure panic as tendrils of smoke began to wisp from their clothes. Though he wasn't a religious man, he started to beseech God. "Please God. Not my brothers. Don't punish them for my sins."_

 _Flames licked at the tails of Aramis' long coat and Athos pleaded even harder. "Take me. Kill me. Let them live!"_

 _d'Artagnan's legs were totally engulfed in flames and the metal work on Porthos' leather doublet began to deform. The fire had reached Aramis' face, which began to disintegrate. Athos wanted to look away, unable to watch the three men he loved most in this world perish in the flames. But he couldn't divert his eyes and great sobs of agony were ripped from his soul as Aramis, d'Artagnan and Porthos slowly died at his feet._

 _When his brothers were nothing more than ashes, he was finally able to close his eyes. But the image of their burning bodies in his mind was so horrific that he opened them again._

However, what met his eyes surprised him. Gone were the mist, the platform, and the ashes. What he saw was Aramis, sleeping in a chair. His eyes quickly sought out and found the rest of his brethren also alive and sound asleep in the second bed in the room.

He was having a hard time reconciling what was visible to his eyes versus what was playing in his mind and his limbs started trembling in shock. As his panic grew, Athos' common sense fled and he irrationally wanted to get as far away from these men as possible; fearing that his mere presence might cause them suddenly to burst into flames. Part of him knew his thoughts were illogical, but the vivid nightmare was still repeating in his brain and overriding his rational self.

Quickly sitting up, he slid off the bed, grabbed his weapons, boots, and discarded doublet, and hurried out of the door. Quietly shutting it behind him, he padded down the hallway until he found the staircase in the inky darkness. The treads were uneven, but a tight grip on the handrail kept him from pitching head first down the steps.

He sprinted through the bottom floor of the inn, heading for the front door. Flipping aside the wooden bar securing the door shut, he exited into the still, humid night and rapidly headed for the stables. Once inside, he let his weapons, boots, and doublet fall to the floor as he heavily dropped onto a bale of hay. Bending forward, he cradled his confused and aching head in his hands as sobs exploded from his throat. His frenzied mind was still trying to reckon reality with the terrible nightmare that seemed so real.

He had no clue what alerted him, but Aramis woke with a start and saw Athos exiting the room carrying his possessions. There was no way this scenario could end well Aramis thought as rose from the chair to follow his wandering brother.

When he caught up to Athos, the man was hunched over quaking, and tears were coursing down his cheeks. Aramis lowered his body down on the hay bale next to him, wrapped his long arms about the trembling man, and drew him into a tight embrace. At first, Athos stiffened and started to pull back; Aramis shook his head and firmly, but gently used his arm to force the grieving man's head against his shoulder as he stroked the unruly, dark hair, all the while mumbling words of comfort.

"Go. Leave me," the muffled voice commanded.

Aramis ignored him, simply hugging him tighter. Eventually, the tears ceased, though Aramis' shoulder was quite damp by that point. Athos pulled away from Aramis' grip and this time the musketeer released him. Rising, Athos moved to stand next to d'Artagnan's horse, rubbing the animal's neck, while keeping his back to his brother-in-arms.

Aramis sat patiently, waiting to see if Athos would enlighten him as to why he was so distressed. The horse was clearly enjoying the attention, relaxing its ears and leaning a little into Athos' scratching. But Aramis wasn't as happy, his patience wearing thin. Finally, he decided if he didn't initiate the conversation, Athos would stand there all night ignoring him.

Gesturing towards the pile of Athos' belongings on the stable floor, he asked, "Going somewhere? Without us?" The slight flinch showed Aramis that he'd hit the intended mark, though the target remained silent. "Nightmare?"

A small nod indicated another hit.

"And you felt disappearing in the middle of the night, leaving your brothers behind was the proper solution?"

Athos dropped his forehead against the chestnuts' soft flank in despondency. When he spoke it was slow and so soft that Aramis strained to hear. "You are my brothers and mean more to me than anything in this world."

"Running off alone, in the middle of the night, is an odd way of showing that." Aramis gently chided.

Fear and frustration welled up in Athos and he spun around to face Aramis. "I am a danger...to you...to everyone. Death follows me like a shadow and engulfs those that come too close."

Aramis rose from the hay bale in concern as Athos' breathing grew labored, and a wild energy emanated from him.

"You died! All of you!" Athos' face was twisted with horror and his voice, low and morbid. "Ashes!" His hands shot out and grasped Aramis by the neck of his shirt, pulling him closer. "The flames. They consumed you. Melted. Like a funeral pyre." His distraught eyes scanned Aramis' face as if he didn't believe the man was alive and standing in front of him. "Dead," his voice echoed hollowly. "Dead. And I couldn't stop it,"

Aramis remained composed and relaxed, not offering any resistance to the strangle hold Athos had on his shirt. He wanted to settle the distraught man, not escalate the situation, so kept his voice soothing and calm. "It was only a nightmare. You can see I'm fine."

Confusion showed on Athos' face as he fought to reconcile reality against imagination. His hands dropped slackly to his sides and he sagged against d'Artagnan's good natured mare, the animal graciously accepting his body weight. Aramis reached out and laid a steadying hand on his shoulder, but the slight recoil made him quickly remove it. However, before returning his hand to his side, he brushed it across Athos' forehead. "Your fever is back," he noted with concern. "Perhaps that is the source of your nightmares."

Athos didn't acknowledge Aramis' commentary, simply staring at the hay covered ground, lost in a world of his own.

The other musketeer cautiously placed a hand on his shoulder again. "Athos, you need to come back inside." Lightly, but insistently, he placed pressure on Athos' arm, encouraging him to move. A small smile flitted across Aramis' lips as they went to walk by the pile on the hay bale that contained Athos' sword, boots, and shirt. The warrior's instinct had him automatically picking up his rapier even though he ignored the other two items.

Aramis reached down and scooped up the other two items. "You might want these later." He still got no reaction from the man who appeared as if he were in a coma, but somehow walking.

Once inside, he steered him up the narrow stairs back into their room and over to the empty bed. Athos handed over his weapon with no resistance and of his own volition, sat on the edge of the bed. Aramis really wanted to examine Athos' wound; but didn't want to light candles and disturb Porthos and d'Artagnan who both needed rest to recover from their injuries. In the semi-darkness, he looked down at Athos, who sat, head-bowed and staring at the floor. With care, he pushed at Athos and got him to lie on the bed, though his eyes remained glazed and unfocused.

"Close your eyes, Athos. Go to sleep," Aramis cajoled the fevered man.

Athos' eyes began to droop, and his breathing evened out as he drifted towards sleep. Aramis moved across the room, found a rag, wet it in the bucket of water, and then brought it back to the bedside where he laid it across Athos' brow. It wasn't much, but it was the best he could do at the moment. Repositioning the chair, he sat, propped his legs on the bed and closed his own eyes, hoping to catch a few minutes of rest before dawn.


	42. Chapter 42

_CHAPTER 42_

* * *

To say he was stiff, tired and sore wasn't doing justice to how Aramis felt when he woke the next morning. Awful was the word that came to mind and when he opened his eyes and saw Athos was missing again he added the adjective incredibly in front of the awful. How in the name of God had the man escaped from the room again without Aramis noting it? A quick glance at the other bed showed that Porthos and d'Artagnan had stayed where they belonged like good little boys; only one of their fold had once again strayed.

With a stifled groan, he dropped his feet from the bed to the floor, stood and stretched his creaking joints and bones. His movements must not have been as silent as he wished, because his roommates stirred and soon two sets of eyes were staring at him. Great, for him they wake up. For Athos, they remain oblivious.

Forcing a smile onto his face that he didn't feel, he greeted the men. "Good morning gentlemen. I hope you slept well."

Porthos, who had managed to push his body upright, leaned his back against the wall behind the bed and gave Aramis the once over. "Aye, the pup and I seem to have had a good night, but you look like crap."

"Thank you for those delightfully motivating words this morning," the marksman returned with affront.

d'Artagnan had managed to rise from the bed and was carefully stretching. When he did a head count he realized they were one short. "Where's Athos?"

Where indeed, Aramis mused. Halfway to Paris? Passed out somewhere on the side of the road? Heading back to Lemione's estate? Chasing some fevered-driven, honor-induced, insane plan of action? These were all good choices in Aramis' mind, but not the ones he wanted to offer his brothers. As he was about to open his mouth and pray that God made something intelligent come forth from his lips, the door to their room opened without warning and Athos strode into the room. He was bearing a tray of food, which he practically dropped on the table before taking a step backwards as he folded his arms across his chest. Always a conservationist of words, he commanded, "Eat. Get dressed. We need to go." The tip of his boot was practically tapping with impatience that they weren't already jumping at his declaration.

"And good morning to you too, Athos," Aramis lazily returned, always willing to be the first to go into the lion's den that was Athos' personality in the morning. Tweaking the lion's tail he asked, "Sleep well?"

Porthos, never one to stand on ceremony, was blunt. "You look like crap too. I'm thinking that you two sharing a bed isn't a good combo."

"Oh let's not be too hasty in our judgment," Aramis suggested as he strolled over to help Porthos stand. "Your supposition assumes both men slept in the bed." Aramis gave an over-the-shoulder glance over at Athos who gave a small wince.

d'Artagnan thus far had remained silent; simply studying his mentor as he carefully maneuvered his doublet over his sore wrist. Porthos had been correct in his declaration; the man did look like crap. His normally unruly hair was plastered to his head his in some places, and sticking out at weird angles in others. His eyes were bright and shining, but not in a good way. His body posture was odd and spoke of a man who was hurting in multiple places and was trying to find a stance that was the least aggravating to his aches and pains.

"How are you Athos?" d'Artagnan politely asked, interested in hearing what creative answer his mentor would come up with and knowing it wouldn't be the truth.

"Fine." Was the staccato lie.

d'Artagnan let loose with a frustrated sigh, but his stubborn friend refused to back down from his prevarication.

Aramis helped Porthos over to the table, settling him in a chair before sitting down. d'Artagnan followed suit and soon all three men were seated looking expectantly at Athos, who remained standing like a frozen, pissed off statue.

"My mother always taught me it was impolite to start eating until all parties were seated?" Aramis arched an eyebrow in Athos' direction.

Porthos, not standing on ceremony and starving as always, reached for a chunk of bread. "First come, first serve was my mother's motto."

d'Artagnan remained silent, but turned pleading eyes on his mentor to join them at the table.

With a huff, Athos sat down in the last empty chair, but made no move to reach for any food. Aramis took care of that for him, pouring a glass of ale before shoving some cheese and grapes in his direction.

"I'm not picking you up off the road if you fall off your horse today," Porthos mumbled around a mouth full of food.

With the sigh of a long-suffering martyr, Athos plucked a few grapes off their stems and popped them in his mouth. That was followed by downing the ale in one shot, banging the mug back on the table, and rising in one swift motion. "The horses are saddled and waiting outside. I'll be with them...when you are done." With that, he turned on his heel and left the room, banging the door behind him.

"Such a morning person," Aramis commented as he wedged some cheese in his bread and took a bite.

d'Artagnan's dark eyes, which had worriedly tracked Athos' departure, turned on Aramis. "How is he?"

"Yeah," Porthos chimed in. "That was a bit moody even for him."

Aramis placed the piece of bread he was about to pop into his mouth down and rubbed a weary hand over his face. He related to them what had occurred last night in the stable.

"Frankly, I'm scared for him. That wound is still infected and I can't seem to do anything about it. He is running a fever, which is taxing his physical body as well as his mind. God knows Athos always is running around with a guilt trip on his shoulders, but now he is convinced being near us will cause our deaths." Aramis' hand moved around to the back of his neck to massage the building tension. "I'm at a loss at what to do other than to watch him like a hawk and get him back to Paris where someone more learned than me can attend that wound."

"You think the infection is driving his behavior?" d'Artagnan asked.

Shaking his head, Aramis dropped his hand to his lap. "Partially, yes. But something happened at Lemione's and even before that, which pushed him over the edge and away from us; and I still don't have a damn clue what it was."

d'Artagnan bit at his lower lip then spoke. "I think I may know what darkened his mood, those many months ago."

His two brothers looked at him with curiosity.

"Remember a month ago, when I twisted my knee and had to rest it for a few days?"

Two heads nodded in concurrence. "You slipped in the mud. Chasing that bandit. You was a right mess," Porthos recalled.

"I had mud in places you should never have mud," d'Artagnan ruefully agreed. "Anyways, you two were sent off on a mission, while I was left behind to rest. Being idle was driving me nuts,"

"Ah yes," Aramis reminisced. "That was such peaceful mission without grumpy bear and his over-eager cub." He turned and looked at Porthos. "We should really do that more often."

"Yeah, but who's gonna fetch the wood and water if we leave d'Artagnan behind? And if we leave Athos behind, who's gonna take all the night watches, 'cause he doesn't sleep anyway?"

"Most excellent points, my friend. I guess status quo is the best." Aramis glanced over at d'Artagnan, who was appearing a bit peeved about being interrupted. "Do continue. I believe you were about to point out that the Captain showed you the error of your ways."

d'Artagnan eyes narrowed at Aramis' correct assumption.

"Really, d'Artagnan," Aramis gently scolded the boy. "Surely you realise that we all have, at one time or the other, been caught doing something of which the Captain disapproves. More than once Athos and Porthos have been assigned less than desirable chores or shifts because of their drinking and gambling habits."

"Oi, and don't forget you too. The Captain isn't always pleased with the way your romantic liaisons end; especially when you need rescuing from some irate husband," Porthos reminded him.

Aramis gave a gracious smile and a little indifferent shrug. "You were saying, d'Artagnan?"

"Unfortunately, the Captain found me doing something he didn't consider 'resting'. So he escorted me back to my room and glared at me until I crawled into bed. Then he shoved a book in my hand and told me to stay in bed until I finished reading it."

"Wish my punishments were as benign," Porthos grumbled. "I always seem to get stuck mucking out the stables for a week."

"The book. How does it tie back to Athos?" Aramis inquired.

"It was his book. Or more precisely, Thomas'. Don Quixote. In the front was an inscription." His voice grew husky as he continued. "Athos must have given the book to his brother Thomas on the occasion of his birthday. The inscription read, 'Thomas. Happy birthday. Remember, I will always be with you on your journey through life, to protect and defend. Your loving brother, Olivier.' The book was dated. The month and day of Thomas' birth. The same month Athos disappeared. I think he was mourning his brother."

Aramis sighed as he rubbed a weary hand through his dark waves, thinking back to the events before Athos disappearance. "With Milady's rise from the dead, and Athos' conflict about letting her live, perhaps it made the remonstrance of his brother's birth and death particularly painful this year. He does like to take the weight of the world on his shoulders alone."

The other two Musketeers' nodded in agreement with Aramis' assessment of their brother.

"But he could have turned to us. We would have been there for him. Why doesn't he?" d'Artagnan complained with a little bit of frustration creeping into his voice.

Porthos' answer was succinct and on target. "Because he is Athos."

There was nothing more to say after that statement and the room grew quiet for a few moments.

"So what now?" d'Artagnan finally asked his brothers.

"Well to start, we'd better hurry and get outside before he does decide to take off without us. When we get back to Paris, we do what we have always done. Offer him our support, our love, and try to keep him from self-destructing," Aramis answered as he picked up a roll to eat.

When they got outside, Athos was astride Aramis' stallion, impatiently drumming his fingers on the horse's neck. The horse's ears flicked in irritation and he did not seem to be enjoying his rider's antsy behavior.

Aramis walked over to his horse and looked up at Athos in the saddle. "You driving today? I suppose that is better so I can keep an eye on you. Make sure you don't fall off." Their eyes locked for a moment, before Athos slid back over the cantle. "Very kind of you," Aramis noted, as he mounted in front of Athos and took up the reins.

"He's your horse," Athos uncharitably muttered under his breath.

While Athos and Aramis were straightening out their seating arrangements, d'Artagnan helped Porthos mount before swinging onboard his own mare.

When everyone was settled, Aramis urged his horse into a walk and they set out for Paris. It was a long, hot journey, particularly for Aramis, who had Athos' fevered body heat adding to the harsh rays of the sun. By the time the four arrived at the Garrison's gate, they were all swaying in their saddles, ready to tumble from their horses.

d'Artagnan slid off his horse, and then walked over to assist Porthos, whose leg was very stiff and sore. Once on the ground, the large man leaned on his sturdy mount for a few moments to gather his strength.

Before Aramis could dismount, Athos began his rather uncontrolled decent, which had him clutching at Aramis' leg and the saddle's leather to avoid collapsing in the dirt yard of the Garrison.

Aramis glanced down at the hand clinging painfully to his leg. "I don't need your assistance to dismount. But thank you for the thought." Athos let go his death grip on Aramis' calf, allowing the man to dismount.

Their return started a small commotion, as the other Musketeers realized the Inseparables were at full strength once more. They started to gather around the four men, offering congratulations and asking questions. Aramis could see Athos was struggling to be polite to all his well-wishers, and it was taking a toll on him. Gradually his breathing grew a bit harsher and sweat began to bead on his forehead.

The Captain, hearing the racket, walked out onto his balcony and looked down to see what was causing the celebration. A small smile tugged at his lips as he searched out and found Athos in the crowd. Hurrying down his stairs, he quickly moved over to the group and his smile flickered a bit with concern, as he took in the rag-tag men that were once his finest Musketeers.

His eyes examined each one in turn. It was obvious from the way Porthos was standing; he had hurt his leg somehow. In d'Artagnan's case, it was his left wrist which was being favored. Both men were also covered with cuts and abrasions that told the Captain his men had been in an outnumbered fight of some sorts.

Aramis got his scrutiny next and while he was sporting the same nicks and bruises as the rest of his brethren, he didn't appear to have any major injuries. However, the weariness that emanated from the man was visible and Treville knew he was as battle-worn as his brothers, no doubt from being their physician, priest, mother, and father.

The last man to get his inspection was the one that concerned him most. It had been nearly three months since he had last seen his Lieutenant, and it was evident that the absence had not been easy on the man. Even fully clothed, Treville could see he had dropped an unhealthy amount of weight. From the mere way he was hanging on the horse for stability, the Captain knew under those clothes lay one or many injuries. His hair and beard were both in need of trimming. But it was his eyes that disturbed Treville the most. The small smile that Athos was offering all who came up to welcome him did not reach his eyes. They were flat, cold, and empty. And as more people crowded towards him, the Captain could practically feel Athos struggling to maintain his composure.

Walking through the crowd to Athos' side, he stood in front of him and clapped him lightly on the shoulder. "Welcome back, Athos."

Athos swallowed hard, before offering his Captain a small nod of acknowledgment.

Spinning around, Treville addressed the crowd. "We are all happy for the return of our brothers. But they are tired, hungry and in need of rest. Let's give them that courtesy."

The crowd of well-wishers understandably broke up, leaving Treville standing alone with his four men. The Captain began issuing orders.

"Jacque, take the horses. Beringer, go fetch the physician. d'Artagnan, assist Porthos into the infirmary.

Jacque and another lad took the horses and Treville watched with curiosity to see if Athos could remain on his feet after the horse, which he'd been discreetly hanging onto, was led away. Aramis must have had the same thought because he sidled closer to his brother in case assistance was required. But Treville soon discovered one thing hadn't changed about Athos while he was gone; he was still stubborn as a mule. Though it was costing him dearly, Athos did everything in his power to stay standing without any assistance.

"You go to the infirmary too. Let the Doctor check you out," Treville commanded Athos. As Athos made to open his mouth to complain no doubt, Treville quickly added, "That's an order," playing on Athos' honor and integrity. His lieutenant usually followed orders. Though, from time to time, Athos had been known to interpret them in liberal manner when it aligned better with what he wanted to do, rather than the Captain's intentions.

"You too Aramis. You all look like you went to hell and back," though his tone let the men know he was sympathizing, not criticizing them. "I'll have Serge rustle up some food." His eyes raked Athos' trim frame again. "You all look like you could do with a decent meal."

Treville headed off towards the kitchen in search of Serge, leaving the four men standing alone in the courtyard. d'Artagnan jokingly offered his good arm to Porthos, in the manner of a gentleman escorting a lady, which earned him a scowl and slap on the head. With a laugh, he offered his shoulder instead and Porthos gratefully leaned some of his weight on his brother as they limped off to the infirmary.

Aramis turned his brown eyes on Athos, who was watching his other two brothers make their way across the courtyard. It was obvious that there was some good-natured ribbing going on between them as they hobbled across the dirt yard.

Aramis traced the trajectory of the green eyes. "It's good to see them laughing again. It was hard on them, when you went missing. All of us. We love you, you know."

Athos dropped his eyes to the ground and seemed to deflate. "My heart understands that but my mind..." His sorrow tinged voice trailed off into silence, as he merely shrugged.

"Well," Aramis said brightly. "You're never too old to learn. We'll just have to work on that brain of yours."

Athos glanced up at Aramis, acknowledging the message had been received. His brothers would always forgive him when he strayed.

"Come now. We best do what Treville told us. Wouldn't be a good idea to aggravate the Captain on your first day back. You'll have plenty of time to do that while you are recovering in your usual, pig-headed manner." Aramis started shepherding Athos towards the infirmary.

"I don't suppose it would do any good to say I am fine and not in need of medical attention," Athos ventured forth, as they followed the other two Musketeers. The only answer he got was a whole-hearted laugh from Aramis, which made him sigh. "I guess that means no, but I do believe you are making mistake."

"Well, it's my mistake to make," Aramis informed him cheerfully as they entered the room. "And if I am wrong, I will be the first to admit it."


	43. Chapter 43

CHAPTER 43

Porthos got comfortable on one of the beds in the infirmary, happy not to be on a horse or his feet. Aramis considerately assisted him with removing his scuffed, brown leather boot from his injured ankle before giving the area a quick examination. He was still fairly certain it was only a bad sprain and that nothing was actually broken. A few days of rest and staying off of it would nicely remedy the situation.

Porthos was usually an excellent patient, seeming to dote on the attention an injury or illness brought to him. Growing up in the harsh environment of the streets, he had received little sympathy and no care when he was hurt. Perhaps that is why, out of all of his three brothers, he took to the sick bed with the least amount of issue. Aramis gave Porthos an easy smile and a friendly pat on the leg before moving over to where d'Artagnan had settled on another bed in the infirmary.

With only one good hand to use, the boy was struggling to undo a button on his doublet and Aramis reached out and provided assistance, which was received a gracious smile. D'Artagnan, as a patient, was a blend of all his brothers best and worst traits. He got his stubbornness and refusal to admit he was injured from his eldest brother. But like his tallest brother, once he admitted he was hurt, he was not at all adverse to having his brothers wait on him hand and foot. He probably felt it was deserved for all the grunt work they made him do in the name of being the 'apprentice'. However, like his romantic brother, he grew fickle and easily bored; and if not entertained, found ways to amuse himself, which were usually at odds with his recovery.

Once divested of his jacket, d'Artagnan drew his feet up on the cot and rested his injured wrist on his bent knees. He smiled at Aramis to let the medic know he was good and Aramis could move on to his next patient.

Seeing that two of his brothers were properly situated, Aramis turned his focus on the last one who, of course, had refused to sit on any of the remaining open beds. Instead, he was leaning against the stone wall with his arms folded defiantly across his chest. Aramis would wager that the wall was the only reason Athos was still upright and should that vice be taken away from him, he would quickly succumb to gravity and end up on the floor. But he knew Athos, if asked, would vehemently deny that accusation.

Before he could give any more thought as to how to get Athos to move to a bed with the least amount of disharmony, the Doctor that the Captain had sent for sauntered into the room. With a bit of kempt for what he was seeing, the Doctor swept the room with his eyes and then headed over to Porthos. Aramis let Athos be for the time being, and moved over to assist the Doctor. Aramis already had an uneasy feeling about this physician and felt if he acted as an intermediary that things might go a bit more smoothly given the capricious behaviors often exhibited by his brothers.

When Aramis appeared at his side, the Doctor took a moment to appraise the pseudo-medic musketeer. Apparently, finding him pedestrian, the Doctor dismissed him as he turned back to focus on his patient. The optimistic Aramis tried to remain positive for his brother's sake, but it was taxing.

The physician did a thorough examination of Porthos' ankle and pronounced it was sprained, not broken, unknowingly concurring with Aramis' diagnose. The musketeer gave Porthos a smug look from behind the physician's back.

Porthos grimaced at his vainglorious brother before refocusing his attention on the Doctor who had said something he thought he must have misunderstood. "You want me to put rice on my bad ankle?" an utterly confused Porthos questioned the medic. "I gotta say. I usually eat it."

Haughtily, the Doctor explained, "R…I…C…E is a mnemonic to help the patient remember the course of treatment I have prescribed. Rest. Ice. Compression. Elevation. 'RICE'. We can thank the Greeks for this enlightened idea."

Aramis had to admit he thought it was clever, though clearly Porthos wasn't as enamored questioning, "Not everyone is educated, and so what happens if they can't spell?"

"I have found," the Doctor explained scornfully, "even an imbecile can remember four simple letters. R…I…C…E," he spelled out again in case anyone in the room had already forgotten them.

"And ice? Who has ice? That is for the rich," Porthos stubbornly continued. "Poor people get hurt too. Probably more than rich people, since there are a lot more of us poor people. Don't we deserve medical treatment too?"

"If the patient can't afford ice, than water, in the form a cold compress…" The Doctor paused a moment as if considering his audience's ability to understand. "…a wet rag can be used in place of the ice."

"Oi. But then that would be RWCE, wouldn't it?" Porthos dolefully shook his head. "That makes no sense."

Perturbed and clearly at a loss as to how to proceed, the Doctor glanced at to the man who was still annoyingly hovering at his shoulder.

Aramis, trying to broker peace, assured the miffed physician Porthos understood and would follow the instructions. "He's practical," Aramis offered by way of an explanation.

The narrowing of the Doctor's eyes said 'practical' was not the word he was thinking of to describe Porthos. But the lettered man chose to remain silent as his eyes scanned the rest of the infirmary for patients.

Since d'Artagnan was also sitting on a bed, the physician made the logical conclusion that he was the next patient. The surgeon walked over to where the Gascon sat and d'Artagnan helpfully held out his damaged wrist for inspection. The Doctor perched on the edge of the bed as he ruthlessly probed the injured limb causing d'Artagnan to grimace under his rough ministrations. D'Artagnan threw a desperate look at Aramis, begging him to intervene, but the musketeer gave a miniscule shake of his head; the boy would have to suffer through the physician's unpleasant examination.

Sprained, not broken, was the Doctor's indubitable diagnosis, which had Aramis sporting another ear-to-ear grin. So far, the medic-musketeer was two for two with his own layman's analysis.

When he finished with his examination, the physician stood, and then peered down at the young musketeer with disquietude. "Are you educated?"

D'Artagnan wasn't sure if he should be insulted or not at the insinuation. "Reasonably so, I like to think."

The physician nodded with reassurance. "Just checking. Because your friend over there thinks my mnemonic won't work on an imbecile."

D'Artagnan struggled to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. "I can handle RICE, I assure you."

The Doctor gave him another curt nod then turned away to study Aramis, who was still standing disturbingly, close to him. "You hurt?" he asked gruffly. "Because you're not sitting on a bed."

"I'm weary and sore, but nothing a good night's rest won't set to rights," Aramis informed him. "However, you do have one more patient."

The physician's eyes combed the beds again. "There isn't anyone else on a bed I haven't already examined."

Aramis had some doubts on how this man identified his patients, but wisely, he didn't voice them. "Well, he hasn't quite made it to a bed yet. He stopped on his way to assist the wall in remaining upright."

The stare he received from the physician had Aramis thinking the Doctor might now be questioning his education level too, not to mention sanity. With a sigh, the physician glanced in the direction that Aramis pointed, and then proceeded to stride towards Athos. As he approached the musketeer, who was eyeing him warily, the Doctor observed the dried blood on the musketeer's shirt, the sweat-beaded forehead, and the unhealthy pallor. "He should be in a bed," the physician decisively declared as he turned back towards Aramis as if it were his fault.

Though everyone in the room, not just the uppity physician, was well aware of that fact, Aramis constructively tried to clarify the situation. "Yes, he should, but he didn't want to lie down."

With a displeased grunt, the physician focused back on Athos. "Are you an imbecile?" he bluntly asked the leaning man. When he didn't get an answer from his patient, he glanced askance at Aramis.

"No, he is not. He is stubborn, fool-hardy, pigheaded, obstinate, moody, relentless, perverse, pernicious, anti-social, and dangerous, but not an imbecile," Aramis cheerfully informed him.

The Doctor's eyes raked Athos from stem to stern again. "Looks kind of stupid to me," he pronounced with authority.

D'Artagnan piped up from his sick bed. "Funny you should say that, Doctor. It's very astute of you. And may I add you are not the first to note his mental vacancy." d'Artagnan grinned wickedly at his brethren.

"Oi. I think that joke is getting worn," Porthos pointed out and Aramis nodded his head in agreement.

"I'll bet you'd thought it was funny if you'd said it," d'Artagnan sulked, moodily picking at a thread on the blanket.

Porthos and Aramis exchanged self-congratulatory grins before the giving the boy a non-committal shrug.

The physician had no idea what was going on, frankly didn't care, and decided these men were all touched in the head. However, he was a professional and had a job to do, so he petitioned Aramis, "Can you get the patient to take off his clothes and lay on the bed so I may properly examine him?"

Athos, clearly not liking where this conversation was heading, pushed off the wall, brushed past the Doctor, and headed for the door.

"Athos! Stop!" his three brothers pleaded as he swiftly moved across the infirmary.

But their entreaty wasn't what halted the man from leaving; rather it was Captain Treville, who unexpectedly stepped into the door frame, effectively blocking it.

"Going somewhere?" he sarcastically drawled, as his strict blue eyes bore down his escaping Lieutenant.

Athos came to an abrupt halt with an interesting mixture of a scowl and a sheepish look gracing his flushed face.

"Here," the Captain said amicably, placing a guiding hand on Athos' elbow. "Let me help you to that empty bed; that one right over there." The Captain pointed with his free hand to the bed in question an Athos' eyes shifted from the Captain's face to the bed.

Releasing Athos' arm, the Captain gave a little meaningful tilt of his head. As if he was headed to the gaol, Athos slunk over to the bed and under the watchful eye of his commander. Treville had the decency to keep his face impassive and not gloat at getting his recalcitrant musketeer to obey.

Treville trailed behind Athos then stopped, taking up what could only be described as a guard position. "I believe the good Doctor will need you to remove your clothing, Athos. Would you like assistance?"

The rebellious glower on Athos' face was impressive, but the musketeer remained uncommunicative as he haltingly divested himself of his clothes down to his braies. It was evident he was complying with this request under extreme protest, not that his fellow musketeers really cared about Athos' opinion. He needed medical care and he was going to get it.

The Doctor grew more animated, as the extent of Athos' injuries became apparent with the shedding of his clothes. "Now this is a patient worthy of my extraordinary talents. Can you get him to sit down?" he questioned the Captain, as if he was the only one in the room who had any measure of intelligence.

Treville gave a meaningful glare at Athos, who grimaced but sullenly complied by perching on the very edge of the bed. It took a second glare from his superior to get Athos to slide back so he was more firmly on the mattress. After scooting backwards, Athos focused his eyes on the room's only window, shutting out everyone else.

The physician started his examination with the wound on the front of Athos' right thigh. "Healing well. Nice stitches."

"Thank you. I'm told I do neat work," Aramis beamed with pride at the compliment.

The Doctor straightened and stared at Aramis with suspicion. "You did that?" His tone indicated he was very skeptical that Aramis was capable of such work. "Huh. I guess that looks can be deceiving," the physician muttered turning back to his patient and leaving Aramis pondering if he'd just been insulted.

The slash on the left forearm didn't elicit much reaction, deemed boring by the physician. After the Doctor moved around to examine Athos' back, he raised his head and his eyes angry sought out Treville, who had moved into position equidistance between Athos, the room's only window and the door. The Captain didn't think the injured musketeer would have the nerve or energy to make a break for it, but better safe than sorry was his motto.

The Doctor' voice was full of contempt as he addressed the Captain over Athos' shoulder. "This man has been whipped, repeatedly on his back. Am I wasting my talents on a mere criminal?"

The Captain stood tall and gave the Doctor a seething stare. His voice barely concealed his infuriation at the insinuation that Athos was a criminal and not worthy of the physician's attention. "Athos is one of the finest Musketeers in all of France. His sword work is legendary and his honor and integrity impeccable. He has laid his life on the line more times than can be counted for the sake of King and Country."

"And the Captain isn't an imbecile either. He can count really high," d'Artagnan snarkily interjected, also offended by the physician's attitude.

"Be that as it may, somebody didn't think much of him judging by the number of these whip marks. However, they are mostly healed and not requiring my skills. He will carry the scars for the rest of his life." The physician gave a negligent wave of his hand as if the scars were of no consequence to him, which further angered all the musketeers in the room. Callus only began to scratch the surface of the attitude displayed by this physician.

The Doctor moved around to the front of Athos again. "Well, his real issue is this," he indicated the red, angry wound on the lower part of Athos' torso. "It's infected and causing his fever no doubt. If it were musket inflicted, I would think the ball still inside."

"I have drained the pus and cleansed it numerous times in the last week, but it doesn't heal and the fever always returns," Aramis informed him. "For the record, while I'm not a trained physician, I do have some modest skills. And, I'm not an imbecile either."

"Didn't think you were," the Doctor stated in a rather distracted manner that didn't convey any level of confidence in Aramis' statement. Aramis, once again, wasn't sure if he had just been subtly insulted by this physician.

"This has been going on for at least a week?" The Doctor reached out a finger and poked at the affected area. "How old is this wound?"

Everyone looked at the only man in the room who could answer that question. Other than the wince that flickered across his face when the physician probed his wound, Athos' gaze remained staunchly fixed on the window and his voice remained mute.

"Well, doesn't matter," the physician continued when it was obvious the injured man wasn't going to enlighten them. "There has to be a foreign body in there, somewhere. I'm going to have to operate."

Those watching closely saw that brought a reaction from their indifferent friend, who flinched after hearing the Doctor's proclamation.

Deciding that addressing his patient was a waste of time, the Doctor issued his instructions to the Captain. "Move him to that table over there. Get me some boiling water, cold water, and bandages."

Between the Captain and Aramis, they got what the physician requested, as well as coaxed, cajoled, and threatened Athos into moving onto the long wooden table situated in the rear of the room.

The doctor took his satchel, moved over to a counter area in the room and began taking items out of his bag. Taking a mug, he added water and powder from a small pouch then stirred the contents. Walking over to the table where Athos sat on its' top, the Doctor thrust the cup at him ordering, "Drink this."

Athos eyed the liquid with disdain and spoke his first word of the visit. "No."

"So you can speak," the Doctor noted with derision. "This draught will render you unconscious so I can operate on your wound without you thrashing about like a fish out of water. You must drink it."

"Nice imagery," Porthos snickered. "He's got one hell of a bedside manner, don't he?"

"I'll lie still," Athos flatly stated, refusing to grasp the mug being held out in front of him.

The Doctor's outraged looked said it all. "Highly unlikely. I won't have my considerable skills inconvenienced by your untimely movements, which will be caused by the unpleasant pain I shall inflict upon you." It didn't go unnoticed the physician wasn't concerned about Athos' pain but rather his own inconvenience. The medic gave the mug in his hand a little shake as if to encourage Athos to take it.

Athos understood there was something wrong with his body and that the physician's course of action was rational. But still, he didn't like the man, he didn't trust him and he didn't want to drink whatever was in that cup. "Then let Porthos knock me out," he counter-offered keeping his hands firmly by his side.

"What?" the confused physician queried glancing around the room for illumination.

"Punch. Surely, a learned man like you knows the meaning of that word. He wants me to punch him in the face with my fist," the grinning muscle man informed the Doctor.

At this point, Aramis could have been helpful; asking the Doctor what was in the cup and then reassuring Athos it was safe to consume. However, Aramis was peeved by the Doctor's so he played along with his brother's shenanigans. "It's quite effective," Aramis chimed in as if it were a natural, everyday occurrence to punch someone in the face.

"Though your jaw is a bit sore the next morning," d'Artagnan added joining in the fun.

Three heads solemnly nodded in concurrence with d'Artagnan's factual statement.

Treville had enough of his men's antics, at the Doctor's expense. While he certainly was no fan of this Doctor and his bedside manner, all this nonsense was not getting Athos well. "There'll be no punching. Drink the damn potion, Athos!" he commanded his obstinate Lieutenant whose eyes darted anxiously from Treville to Aramis.

It was evident to Aramis that Athos didn't want to disobey Treville. But Athos was also distressed by drinking a potion from a Doctor, who had not instilled any measure of confidence in the wounded musketeer. Athos' eyes pleaded with Aramis for support and Aramis took pity on his brother.

Aramis politely asked the physician to explain what he put in the water to render the man unconscious. With an exasperated huff, the Doctor grudgingly imparted the information though it was clear he was not happy about being quizzed.

When the Doctor finished, Aramis turned to Athos and placed a comforting hand on the man's shoulder. "It's ok, Athos. I have used that medicine on you when you were injured. You can drink it with an easy mind."

With great reluctance, almost as if it contained poison, Athos took the mug, downed the contents in one long gulp, and then handed the empty cup back to Aramis.

"That wasn't so bad was it?" Aramis said as he accepted the empty glass back from Athos. He had barely finished his question when he noticed Athos' eyes starting to glaze and droop. Aramis moved to his brother's side, took him by the shoulders, and encouraged him to lie down on the table. After he got him situated, he compassionately took hold of Athos' right hand giving it a comforting squeeze. "I will be right here the whole time, my brother." Athos' heavy eyelids sagged closed, but not before mouthing a sincere thank you.

The next hour was horrible, as the physician sliced open the half-healed wound and proceeded to dig around in it. Porthos was glad his bed was not in the direct line of sight of the operation; his side view was bad enough. At one particularly gruesome point, Porthos wished he was anywhere else but here witnessing his friend being tortured.

What was being done to his mentor must have gotten to d'Artagnan too, because he silently rose from his bed and moved to sit next to Porthos. The two men garnered comfort from each other's proximity on the narrow cot. The wound was leaking a lot of blood and d'Artagnan turned his head into Porthos' shoulder, not wanting to witness what was occurring on the operating table. The gentle giant tenderly cupped the back of the boy's head, whispering words of comfort.

It was clearly evident to all in the room that even though he was unconscious, Athos was feeling the pain from the physician's relentless probing. Occasional moans and groans tore through the room and tears slid from under the closed lashes. Aramis was about to put a stop to the torture when the doctor triumphantly held aloft a sliver of metal for all to see.

"This is what was causing the issue. He will get well," the Doctor pronounced before glancing down at the table, which had a slick coating of blood. "Though, he has bled a lot. That might kill him," the surgeon stated dubiously as if he hadn't noticed earlier, the copious amount of blood seeping from his patient.

After irrigating and closing the wound with neat little stitches, the Doctor walked away to clean up and indicated the Musketeers could move Athos from the soiled table to a clean nearby bed. The Doctor left Aramis with explicit instructions before departing, talking slowly and carefully as if he still had doubts about the man's mental abilities.

When he was done with his overbearing lecture, Treville graciously walked the physician to the Garrison's gate, leaving the four Musketeers alone to commiserate and recover. When one of their brethren suffered, they all suffered.

"That was rough," Porthos, sighed, wearily running a hand through his curls. "Wonder how the metal got in there?"

"I wonder how he got the slash in the first place. It takes a lot of skill to lay a blade on Athos," d'Artagnan declared as he stared at his unconscious form of his mentor. "I haven't ever gotten a solid hit on him."

"If he was ganged up on," Porthos grumbled darkly. There was no doubt in anyone's mind if Porthos found the guilty parties that hurt his brother, they would feel the full fury of his wrath.

"Well, the only person who can answer any of those questions is fast asleep and I suggest we imitate his behavior." Aramis moved to the bed next to Athos and exhaustedly flopped down on it.

"Need help falling asleep?" Porthos offered, with a bit of a mischievous grin as he cracked his knuckles.

"No, thank you. I believe after today's events I can fall asleep on my own quite nicely." Aramis arranged his long limbs on the bed and, good to his word, was soon slumbering.

D'Artagnan moved from Porthos' cot and crawled into a bed nearby, as if not wanting to be too far away

When Treville returned on the room to check on his men, he found them all fast asleep. Relieved that he wouldn't have to fight with any of them to get the rest they needed, he closed the door and headed for his quarters. He had a feeling just because his sheep had returned to the flock that this situation wasn't fully resolved yet.


	44. Chapter 44

CHAPTER 44

Two of the three Musketeers returned to their own rooms to continue their recovery, while one was left behind in the infirmary. For the first few days after the Doctor had removed the stray piece of metal from Athos' side, which had been causing the recurring infection, the musketeer had been ill enough that staying in bed wasn't a problem. For three days, he drifted in and out of consciousness, and at least one, though usually all three of his brothers, were by his side. His nightmares, from which he was unable to wake, must have been horrendous judging by the effects they were having on his body, causing him to thrash, moan, and sob in his sleep. It broke his brothers' hearts to see their leader so helpless, unable to escape the torment, but there was nothing they could do other than to hold his hand, stroke his sweaty forehead and pretend when he woke they didn't see the remnants of the tears that had painfully flowed down his face.

By day four, Athos was staying more awake than asleep due to the fact that the fever seemed to have finally deserted his body. However, given his ordeal, he was left weak, drained and in need of recovery. However, it didn't take him long to start chafing against what he considered imprisonment in the infirmary, even though he could barely walk more than a few feet before becoming fatigued.

Both D'Artagnan and Porthos were up and about, and other than a few twinges, fully operational again. Captain Treville, having limited manpower, was forced to put all three musketeers back into the work rotation, but he did his best to make sure one was free to stay behind and watch over the recovering Athos.

The Doctor came back to visit his patient, though his bedside manner remained peculiar at best, and condescending most of the times. After the first visit, Treville soon discovered it was best to have either he or Aramis present during the session. D'Artagnan and Porthos seemed to irritate the physician endlessly. He remained firmly convinced the two men really were imbeciles, and the pair of them strove to live up to that title with their outrageous hijinks. When the two of them started unmercifully needling the Doctor, the Captain had to wonder himself, if he had commission imbeciles, and he had simply failed, until now, to notice that fact. After one particularly bad session, he was forced to ban D'Artagnan and Porthos from the infirmary when the physician was present. He feared for Athos' care, when the Doctor became rattled by the quick, but dubious, wit of the other two Musketeers.

It was on day five of Athos' stay at the infirmary, when Aramis walked into the room and found the man out of bed, standing in the middle of the room, in his undergarments. He appeared none-to-steady, as he attempted to move across the room, causing Aramis to rush his side to offer an unappreciated, steadying hand.

"Do you need to use the chamber pot? It is right there," Aramis pointed to the vessel stored near the bed Athos had just vacated.

Annoyed, Athos attempted to shake Aramis' hand loose from his arm, which had questionable results. He managed to break free, though in doing so he ponderously stumbled sideways and had to grab the back of a nearby chair to remain upright. Being the hardheaded man he was, he made it seem as if that were his plan all along, moving to sit in the chair, which he accomplished, though rather ungracefully.

Aramis managed to keep the smirk off his face, but had a hard time keeping it out of his voice. "Is there some reason you feel the need to sit in the middle of the room, in your undies?"

Aramis lost the battle and a smirk appeared on his lips, as he watched Athos transform into the Comte de la Fere in preparation to put Aramis in his place. Both men knew it was a great technique, which worked on most people; the Comte was able to render them into compliance with his regal, no-nonsense bearing, piercing stare, and cool, confident voice. But it didn't work on his brothers, who were more-than-likely to laugh, and ignore him anyway. However, it was Athos' favorite defense mechanism when he couldn't physically fight his way out of a situation, which he clearly couldn't now, so he fell back on it by necessity.

"I am leaving," his rich baritone, with its clipped syllables, monarchically informed him.

With a look of mild amusement on his face, Aramis crossed his hands over his chest and relaxed his stance as he stared down at his nearly naked brother, who was sitting precariously on the chair. "I see. Do you think that is advisable, given your current state?"

It was unclear if Aramis meant the fact that Athos could scarcely remain upright or that fact he was barely clothed; both were equally good points.

The king of the monosyllable answer stared up at him with contempt, playing the Comte to the hilt. "I am fine."

That did cause Aramis to laugh aloud. "You are far from fine. You couldn't even walk three feet from your sick bed to this chair."

Athos gave him a withering glare that clearly indicated that he too, thought Aramis was an imbecile. "I made it, did I not?"

Aramis decided this particular conversation, though amusing, was dead-ending so he took a new avenue. "So you are leaving. To go where may I ask?"

With an eye roll that didn't go noticed, he replied, "My room."

Aramis wondered, when Athos couldn't sleep at night, which he knew was often, if the man sat up making a mental list of all the one syllable words he could use in infuriating, uninformative, conversations. Occasionally, he threw a multi-syllable word in the mix, but his track record was pretty good.

Aramis circled back to his original theme, with a slight variation on the question. "Do you think it is a good idea to be wandering about the streets of Paris?"

Quirking an eyebrow at him, Athos declared, "I know where I live."

Before Aramis could offer a rebuttal, D'Artagnan walked thru the door carrying a pair of pants and a shirt. He looked expectantly at the bed where Athos should have been lying, before swiveling his eyes to where he actually was. "Whoa. You're out of bed. Is that wise?"

Before Athos could answer 'yes', which he was fully confident the injured man would, Aramis cut in. "No. Of course not. He shouldn't be out of bed. But he is too stubborn to admit it and you appear to be helping him in his stupidity. Why are you bringing him clothes and aiding in his escape plans?"

D'Artagnan managed to appear indignant and sheepish at the same time. They really needed to work with this farm boy, on hiding his emotions. He wore them on his sleeve for everyone to see and it was going to get him in deep trouble someday. "I wasn't helping him escape. He obviously needs to remain here, until he is recovered, which he is uncertainly not."

Aramis flicked his eyes at the clothing bundle in the boy's hands and D'Artagnan followed his gaze. "These? He said he was cold."

"And you didn't think to offer him a blanket instead?" Aramis suggested, with a slight hint of sarcasm, for which he immediately felt bad, when D'Artagnan eyes dropped to the floor.

"He was quite persuasive," the youngest Musketeer muttered.

Aramis walked over to where Athos sat and gave him a small slap on the shoulder, partially as a rebuke. "He can be, persuasive, our Athos." For those that knew him best, there was a little eye flicker that showed he did feel a wee bit bad about snowing the boy, though to most, it would appear the regal Comte was not sorry in the least.

D'Artagnan dropped the bundle of clothes on a nearby bed, before walking over to join Aramis, who was standing in front of Athos. "You tricked me," he accused his mentor, who didn't answer other than to find great interest in the wall at the far side of the room, which he studied with a passion.

"So, your plan was to wobble thru the streets of Paris, alone, half-dressed and unarmed and you thought that a brilliant plan," Aramis summarized.

Another small eye flick by Athos, immediately alerted Aramis that he had just hit on something, but before he could dig further, Porthos burst into the room.

"Here's the dagger you wanted," the big man said striding into the room and holding Athos' silver-gilded dagger aloft before laying it on the bed near the pile of clothes. "Hey, what are you two doing here?" Porthos questioned his brethren. "I thought it was my turn to watch him."

"I do not need watching," Athos reminded them, not that anyone listened to him.

"Yes, you do. You are already slipping. Watching has two syllables." Aramis turned away from the confused Athos, who was still trying to figure out the inference of his last comment and faced his brothers. "What is wrong with the two of you? He is not well enough to return to his quarters, yet you two are enabling him!"

"I'm not enabling him!" Porthos empathically stated. "I was helping protect him."

Skepticism was written all over Aramis' face. "And how were you protecting him?"

Porthos drew his body up straight, giving his brother a slightly haughty stare. "He said he was uncomfortable, here alone, without a weapon. I think we can all agree being without our weapons makes us nervous."

D'Artagnan bobbed his head in concurrence.

"So I brought him his dagger." Porthos appeared very pleased at his logical explanation, until Aramis started shooting holes in it.

"I see. And where does Athos keep his dagger, at night?"

D'Artagnan, having learned the hard way, knew the answer to that question. "Under his pillow."

"Exactly right. And what has our charming bed companion been known to do with said dagger, when startled in the night?"

No answer was needed for that question, as each man in the room was well aware of what Athos might do, if spooked in the night. They had all, at one time or another, in the darkest hours of the night, encountered the pointy end of Athos' hidden dagger.

"Can you just imagine, if he was a nightmare, what the dagger could do to some unsuspecting soul?"

"Well, it's not like I bought him his sword or his musket," Porthos groused being a little put out, from trying to be a supportive friend.

Aramis reached over and patted his downcast brother on the arm. "Don't feel bad. This one," he jerked his head in D'Artagnan's direction, "brought him his clothes, because he was cold."

Porthos puzzlement was evident in his question. "Why didn't you just give him a blanket?" he asked their youngest Musketeer who simply shrugged.

"I'll keep that in mind for next time."

"I do not understand the two of you," Aramis started, settling into his lecture mode. "You know he doesn't have the good sense to take care of himself. That it is our unfortunate job. When he is sick, or injured, it is our duty to assure he gets the proper care cause God knows for a supposedly well-educated Comte, he is as dumb as dirt when it comes to recovering."

Aramis launched into a series of tales about stupid things Athos had done when he was supposedly recuperating. D'Artagnan and Porthos focused on Aramis, correcting and adding to his stories while Athos remained sitting in the chair, momentarily forgotten by his three brethren.

As soon as the Athos realized he was no longer the center of attention, he sidled over to where his clothes were and rapidly began to don them. Luckily, he had forged earlier, found his discarded boots, and tucked them under his bed. By the time he got his clothes and boots on, he was winded and had to take a small break. However, his brothers were still going strong in reminiscing about all the things he had done when injured, and Athos was glad he apparently done so many dumb things, because it gave him more time to escape now.

He wondered, as he debated where to put the dagger, whether this escapade would be added to the 'Athos stupidity' list, but honestly, he didn't care. It was intolerable being cooped up in the infirmary, with people able to drop in day and night and visit him. While he appreciated his fellow Musketeer's concern for his well-being, frankly it was driving him nuts. He simply wanted to be left alone.

Deciding he needed his two hands free while he walked, he shoved the sharp dagger in the top of his left boot. It momentarily crossed his mind that this wasn't the short knife he normally kept in his boot, that this one was longer, and when he stood up to leave, the tip of the dagger poked his ankle bone. Biting off a curse, he recalled why he had commissioned a special piece for concealment in his boot; exactly to avoid this stabbing issue. Gritting his teeth, he shifted the blade a bit to the side so it only occasionally jabbed him. Not having time to fiddle any more, as it sounded like the three way 'berate Athos' session was winding down, he pushed past the slight inconvenience and noiselessly headed for the entry way.

When he got there, he was forced to grasp the door jams to steady his insubordinate body. Already, he was borderline dizzy and shaking and he hadn't even technically left the room yet. The rationale part of his mind told him this venture was pure folly, which he ignored, pushed off the door frame, and stumbled over to the next closest object, the water trough in the courtyard for the horses. That became his next resting point, though he was careful not to topple into it, fearing he would not have the strength to climb out.

In this fashion, he made his way across the deserted, Garrison's dirt courtyard. He foundered from the trough to the table near the Captain's evaluated porch, table to a hitching post, post to the spear rack near the gate and finally to the stone archway that marked the entrance to the Garrison. As he leant against the cool, dank, stones that formed the curvature, desperately trying to catch his breath, he wondered what the hell was taking his three caretakers so long to realize he had escaped and come assist him. The fact they seemed obvious to his departure was really annoying him. The one time he wanted them to help and fuss over him, they were elsewhere swapping idiotic stories.

His original plan was never to walk to his quarters on his own because he knew he wasn't capable of it. The idea was to get out of the infirmary, have them discover he had escaped, rush after him, and scold him for his foolhardiness. At that point, he would pitifully grovel, they would feel sorry for him and then grudgingly assist him thru the streets of Paris to his rooms. However, that wasn't happening and he was left alone in the damn streets, staggering about. With a frustrated sigh, he pushed off the bricks, wobbled his way out the gate to the next object, and prayed no one was watching his undignified journey.

But someone was observing, three someones to be exact. If the Musketeer's had not reached an impasse on a particular point of the tale they were recounting, and had decided to turn to Athos for clarification, they still might not have known he had flown the coop.

"How long are you going to make him suffer, before we help him?" D'Artagnan asked, as the three of them watched Athos fumble his way down the street.

Porthos scratched his beard before weighing in. "I say we wait until he falls face first in the dirt. Serve him right."

"As fun as that sounds, we would feel terrible if he were further injured," Aramis countered and the other two reluctantly had to nod in agreement.

"Suppose so," Porthos mumbled as they slowly walked across the courtyard. "Still..."

From the way Athos was staggering, it seemed he might very well tumble to the ground before his saviors reached him. Making a wild-ass grab at the side of a slightly alarmed, fruit vender's stall, he barely managed to stay upright. Spotting his brethren out of the corner of his eye, he straightened his frame, and nodded to the vendor as he examined his wares, attempting to appear nonchalant.

"Doing some shopping?" D'Artagnan asked as he approached the stand and began his own examination of the produce for sale. "The carrots are particularly nice. Trust me. I'm a farmer."

Aramis and Porthos gathered around the cart and all four musketeers, plus a confused vendor, stared at each other in silence. The merchant was at a loss as to what was occurring, but in the spirit of trying to move his wares he ventured, "The carrots are nice. From my son's farm."

D'Artagnan tilted his head in recognition, before raising an eyebrow at Athos, silently declaring he was right.

Athos, always the gentleman, acknowledged the vendor statement. "I am sure they are quite delicious and Roger always enjoys carrots, but I fear I have come out without coin. But tomorrow, if you are here, I will be sure to purchase some for him."

With that, he pushed off the cart and started weaving his way thru the crowd again. Porthos quickly moved to his side and draped Athos' left arm over his shoulders, to reinforce the wobbly man. He didn't dare place his arm around Athos' waist for fear of aggravating his injury.

"Thank you," Athos mumbled softly, truly appreciably and requiring the assistance.

Before he left the stand, Aramis, leaned over to address the merchant, "I promise, he will be back to purchase your lovely carrots, but it won't be tomorrow. That I guarantee."

The vender, still hoping to salvage a sale from these slightly crazy Musketeers, tried one last sales pitch. After all, he had a family to feed. "But what about Roger? You said he loves carrots. What will he say when your friend comes home without some?"

Aramis had already moved on, but D'Artagnan, who was still near the cart, answered. "Like his master," the musketeer jerked his chin towards the receding Athos, "Roger is a beast of few words."

The old man shook his head and turned his attentions on what appeared to be a real, paying customer. "Crazy Musketeers," he griped under his breath.

In this case, D'Artagnan had to agree, as he hurried to catch up with his companions. They all were a bit potty, which he supposed, or at least hoped, was part of their charm.


	45. Chapter 45

CHAPTER 45

They finally made it to Athos' rooms and opened the door; the exhausted, barely upright Musketeer came to a dead stop in his doorway, his expression registering his amazement. His sparse belongings were right where he had left them months ago. It was also apparent that someone had come in and kept the place clean during his extended absence.

"It's a good thing you had the means to pay for your rooms for the year," Aramis stated as he nudged Athos on the shoulder to get him moving again. "Oh, and Treville had someone come in and tidy up."

Athos shuffled into the room noting, it was much neater and cleaner than he usually kept it. He vaguely recalled Aramis mentioning something on their trip back about Treville looking after the upkeep of his rooms. The grateful musketeer made a mental note to thank and reimburse the Captain the next time he saw him. It was good to have a place to come 'home'.

Aramis guided Athos over to his freshly laundered bed and the fatigued man collapsed onto its smooth surface. Without a word, he rolled over onto his good side and within a few seconds was totally passed out. With concern, Aramis reached down to lay two fingers on the artery in Athos' neck, to reassure his mind this was simple exhaustion and not something more sinister. A strong and steady, though slightly elevated, pulse beat under his questing fingertips causing him to sigh with relief. As a precaution, he brushed Athos' errant locks off his forehead to check for a fever and thankfully, he detected none.

Aramis' companions had watched in anxious silence as he did his examination. When he straightened up they looked at him expectantly, waiting for the verdict on their elder brother's medical condition.

"Well?" d'Artagnan demanded, impatiently shifting his weight from foot to foot when Aramis took too long to speak.

Aramis moved across the room to one of the chairs by a small table, sat down, and then answered the question. "His walk seems to have done no additional harm." There was a collective sigh of relief from the other two men. "Actually, if the truth be told, he'll probably recuperate better here than in the infirmary."

"That's for sure," Porthos agreed as he, too, dropped into a chair near the table. "Too much coming and going there. Makes you nervous, especially a back-to-the-wall type like Athos."

D'Artagnan remained standing, staring down at the prone form of his mentor. "What now?"

"The Captain is still got us on rotating shifts, so we can keep an eye on him. That shouldn't change because he is here," Porthos pointed out. "Actually, he'll probably be harder to control in his own rooms. I know the Captain kept dropping into the infirmary unexpectedly to ensure Athos was following the Doctor's orders. Here he is likely to run amuck."

Aramis kicked the third chair away from the table, indicating d'Artagnan should sit. "Gentlemen, we need to form our strategy. Campaign: Wounded Warrior is officially in phase two. With careful planning and a few contingency plans we may yet prevail and get him healthy, well, at least physically. My granny always said you can't cure crazy, only contain it on a good day."

"Very philosophical of your granny," d'Artagnan dually noted.

Aramis grinned, as he casually shrugged. "She was bonkers."

"So the apple didn't fall far from the tree," Porthos smirked at his friend. "Was she in the habit of hanging out of bedroom windows too?"

"Of course not," Aramis replied, appearing as if he were mortally offended. "But we did find her in the barn a number of times and..."

Holding up a hand to stop the rest of the sentence, d'Artagnan pleaded, "Please don't finish. I like animals."

"My dear boy. I was simply going to say she conducted her liaisons in the hay loft, but now that you mention it..." Aramis let his voice trail off with the hint of suggestion, causing his companions to groan.

Over the course of the next week the three musketeers needed every trick in their arsenal to keep the recovery of their fourth brother on track. Sleeping, eating, and resting were high priorities on the caretakers' list; the patient only had one priority: to be left alone. To say Athos did not graciously accept the ministrations of his brothers would be a gross understatement. It was also ironic. As an injured prisoner, Athos had told himself that if he got free he would appreciate when his brothers took care of him. However, somewhere between the estate and here that promise fell by the wayside.

For the first few days, when pure exhaustion kept Athos from being able to rise from his sickbed, he simply ignored and refused to acknowledge his brothers' presence in his rooms. It appeared as if he had suddenly gone blind, deaf and dumb, though his friends swore the 'dumb' part was not a recent occurrence. Once he was partially able to get up and around, keeping him resting in his bed became a hellish chore.

One afternoon Aramis strolled into the room to find Athos secured to his bed by a stout length of rope. The captive sat there sulkily, shooting glaring daggers at his jailer, who was across the room in a chair with an equally murderous look upon his face.

"Rough day, boys?" Aramis inquired, shifting his gaze between Athos and Porthos who was sitting at the table.

"Untie me!" Athos demanded in a vexed tone.

"Hell hasn't frozen over yet," was the growled reply. Porthos turned his attention on Aramis. "Guess what he was doing?"

Casually shrugging his shoulders, Aramis declared, "I wouldn't know where to begin, though judging by his current state of captivity it must not have been a particularly good thing."

Porthos' kerchiefed head bobbed up and down. "Aye. It was definitely not a good thing. He was fighting!"

The prisoner on the bed spoke up offering a different interpretation. "Coaching."

"Fighting," Porthos firmly stated glaring at his trussed-up brother.

Considering Athos fought for a living, the reveal didn't really surprise Aramis all that much. However, he didn't think it would be wise to voice his opinion. He studied Athos with a mixture amusement, curiosity, and concern. "Those ropes aren't pressing on his wound? I wouldn't want it to start bleeding."

Porthos shook his head, as he curled his lips in disgust. "Too late for that worry. He already broke open the wound." Porthos pointedly looked around Aramis to glare at Athos again. "By fighting!"

"Coaching." Came the equally stubborn reply. "There is a difference."

Obviously, this conversation was going nowhere, so with a sigh Aramis rose, walked over to the bed, and began to untie Athos so he could examine the sutures. "Would one of you gentlemen be so kind as to relate the complete story?"

Athos deliberately turned his head away, choosing to stare at the blank wall rather than speak, so Aramis cocked his head and looked askance of Porthos.

"Oi. I'll tell you what happened. I was trying to be nice, I was." He jerked his chin in the direction of the injured man. "He was complaining about being cooped up in this room so I generously agreed, against my better judgement, to let him go for a brief sojourn outside."

"Most benevolent of you," Aramis graciously conceded, as he continued to work at removing the rope.

Athos offered a small, derisive snort by way of commentary.

"As we stepped out the door, this horse and driverless cart goes trotting by followed by the baker, who is on foot, chasing it." Porthos couldn't stop a small smile from appearing on his lips. "It was quite the sight seeing the baker attempting to catch his horse and cart."

Aramis glanced up from his task with interest. "Not the one from a few streets over? The plumb baker who appears to sample more than he sells?"

"Exactly so!" Porthos concurred with enthusiasm.

"That must have been some sight," Aramis chuckled, continuing on with his task as Porthos picked up the thread of the story.

"I knew there was no way the baker was ever gonna catch his horse, given his...ah... athletic prowess. And it would be dangerous to have that cart careening through the market wreaking havoc. So I turned to our fearless leader and distinctly told him to go back inside, while I assisted in capturing the runaway beast."

Aramis removed the last of the rope before gesturing for Athos to remove his shirt. For his efforts, he received a cold, hard stare from the recalcitrant musketeer. "Really, Athos? I could re-tie you if you prefer."

With a huff, Athos dropped his bluff and began to remove his shirt as requested. It was a slow and painful procedure still, but being perverse and using it to make a point, Aramis did nothing to assist.

"I'm guessing that Athos didn't quite do as you suggested," Aramis mused as he watched the injured man struggle to get out of his linen shirt. While he waited, he coiled the rope before setting it on the nearby chest.

Porthos answered with a derogatory laugh. "Not even close. When I get back after corralling that horse, he is nowhere to be found."

When the shirt was finally removed, the pseudo-medic carefully unwound the linen bandage from around Athos' torso. "But obviously, you eventually did find him."

"Oh yeah. At the Garrison. In the courtyard. Dueling with one of the new recruits." Porthos shook his head in disgust. "I should have left him there for Captain Treville to find. That would have been a sight to see."

Athos winced as Aramis pried the last layer of the bandage loose from his skin, where it had absorbed some seepage from his wound and adhered to his side.

"Coaching." Athos reiterated, before making a sound of derision. "His sword work was so bad, it was painful to watch."

"Not as painful as re-stitching this wound is going to be," Aramis muttered, though neither man really caught what he said because their concentration was taken up by glaring at each other again.

Porthos picked up his narrative. "So I come through the gate and there he is fencing with a green recruit who was flailing around like a windmill."

Athos continued to appear highly annoyed, as if the mere thought of the recruit's lack-of-skill was offensive to him. "On that we agree. His technique was unseemly. An insult to us all. It was my duty to correct him."

"A duty you could have performed verbally, from a nice bench, in the shade on the sidelines. But no, I find you, sword in hand, fighting with him!" Porthos' fist descended on the tabletop with a large crash. "Next thing I know, he is down on the ground, gasping for breath, and the recruit is standing dazed above him in shock."

"I slipped. In the mud," Athos quickly clarified, daring Porthos to correct him.

"It hasn't rained in weeks. There was no mud," Porthos contradicted him, not the least bit afraid of his bristling brother.

Athos, never one to give up the fight, pressed his point. "Someone must have spilled a bucket of water and made mud."

"Or perhaps a horse took a piss and made the ground muddy. Get real, Athos. You slipped because that green recruit managed to get inside your guard and hit you in the side, your wounded side, with his blade! You dropped like a rock."

Athos scowled looking away. "When I slipped, I jarred my wound."

Porthos wasn't buying into that tall tale. "It hurt, because the raw recruit got you with his blade."

"Well, however it happened, you have caused it to tear open." Aramis didn't touch, but used his elegant finger to hover above the region in question. "I suppose I should call the Doctor and have him re-stitch it."

Athos' head whipped around at the suggestion, his voice taking on a panicked edge as his eyes pleaded with Aramis. "No. Your needlework is good. Very good. Fine enough for the Queen's chemise, I recall you boasting."

Green and brown eyes locked, one pair imploring for mercy and the other slightly amused. "Well, I suppose if you insist, I could do it," Aramis graciously offered. Frankly, it would be easier for him to stitch it, Aramis thought, than deal with the three ring circus that would be Athos, Porthos and the pompous Doctor.

Porthos, still pissed, interjected his opinion. "I think you should call the Doctor. He's a professional."

Athos shuddered, as he recalled his sessions with the Doctor to date. "A professional butcher and a quack."

Reaching over, Aramis gave Athos a quick pat on his shoulder. "Nonsense. He was a fine Doctor and a discriminating judge of character."

Porthos couldn't help smirking. "Yea. He and the Comtesse de Larroque both noted Athos' mental vacancy."

"Really, Porthos? Haven't we covered that ground? That joke is so worn, you can see through it," Aramis chided the warrior who had the decency to duck his head.

"Aye, sorry. Last time."

"Not to worry," Aramis stated, as he reached over to give Athos another pat on the shoulder. "Soon enough he'll do something else stupid that you can use as a foundation for a new joke."

Athos narrowed his eyes, but was stopped from doing anything more by Aramis, who deliberately brushed a light finger over the tender wound, refocusing his brother's attentions.

Athos grunted in pain, as he shifted his gaze away from Porthos. "Is it so much to ask to be left in peace?"

Aramis didn't answer the question but instead, issued a request to Porthos to procure some clean water. After the tall man had left the apartment, Aramise focused his attention back on Athos, who was moodily staring out the window.

"Why do you seek to aggravate and push away those that seek only to help you?"

Aramis got the answer he expected, silence, though he was observant enough to catch the minute flinch in Athos' lower jaw. Moving closer, he bent down and carefully enveloped a surprised Athos in an earnest embrace. "He's worried. About you. We all are."

When they broke apart, Athos studied Aramis, as if to ascertain if the sentiment was real and his scrutiny didn't go unnoticed. "You, my friend, are your own worst enemy. Is it so hard to believe people care about you?"

In a rare moment of honesty, Athos let the answer to that question show on his face before catching the corner of his lower lip in his teeth and turning away. Aramis knew about Milady, and how she destroyed this man's psyche, but the astute musketeer felt there must have been other things that occurred before Athos' murderess wife's actions, that had damaged this man's soul. Rich or poor, Comte or peasant, cruelty knew no limits.

Aramis was wondering if Athos' defensives were lowered enough that the man would open up to him. But before he could frame a question, Porthos returned with the water and the moment was gone.

We are not finished, Aramis thought, as he reached out and gave another comforting pat to Athos' shoulder. Another time, another place, we will have this conversation, he silently vowed his brother; and it will be soon.


	46. Chapter 46

CHAPTER 46

"It's hot as hell and we have parade duty again," Porthos complained, as he squinted up at the sun giving it a fierce scowl as if his mere stare could make it go away.

Aramis, who had been sitting outside at the table in the hopes of finding a cool breeze, glanced up at his two brothers. "And it's not even noon yet," he commiserated, as he speared a slice of cheese, which sagged limply on the end of fork because of the heat.

"At least you have had the night shifts at the Palace." D'Artagnan snagged an apple biting into its firm, but warm, flesh.

"Which, if you think has been a picnic, think again. All the ladies I have been forced to disappoint." Aramis sighed meaningfully. "It simply isn't fair."

Porthos, who had grabbed a piece of bread and was shoving some cold strips of meat into it, stopped in his task for a moment. "If he were cleared for duty we wouldn't be split up doing these stupid tasks."

"Oh that's not true, Porthos. We all get our share of unpleasant assignments. Captain Treville is very impartial when it comes to that. Well, except when we have been up to extracurricular activities he disapproves of. Then we get more than our fair share of undesirable tasks as punishment."

"But why does he punish all of us for the transgressions of one? Half the time I'm not even sure what you two have done, and why I'm being penalized. It doesn't seem very fair to me," the youngest member of the group complained, as he glanced between Porthos and Aramis.

"All for one and one for all," Aramis answered breezily.

"And don't forget Athos; he ain't no Saint. Oh and by the way, Aramis, he's gone missing again. Come on whelp, let's go or we'll be late. God knows we don't want to give the Captain any more excuses to chastise us."

D'Artagnan grimaced, as he trudged along after Porthos. "I'm really not overly fond of the term 'whelp'.

"How about boy? Newbie? Apprentice? Novice? Neophyte? Rookie? Tyro?" Porthos suggested, with an ear-to-ear grin.

"For someone who grew up on the streets, you have an awfully good vocabulary," D'Artagnan noted.

Porthos mounted Flip and waited for d'Artagnan to hop onboard Zad. "I like to read and improve myself. You should try it sometime, Cadet."

Aramis watched as his two friends headed out the gate, continuing with their good-natured bantering. When they were gone, he ran a weary hand through his sweaty hair as he debated what to do next. He really wanted to find a cool place to sleep as the night shift at the palace had worn him out. However, he was a little bothered by the fact that Athos, once again, was missing.

While the recovering musketeer was not confined to his bed, his rooms, or the even the Garrison anymore, Treville had undeniably laid down the ground rules on what was permissible during recuperation. Sleeping, eating, sitting, observing, cleaning weaponry, and light riding were on the allowable list. Staying up all night brooding, consuming large quantities of alcohol, running, dueling, using weaponry and riding at a gait above a walk were strictly banned. Athos, being Athos, had cleverly managed to break most of the rules already, in his usually adroit fashion, where he seemed to be fully cooperating, but if you dug too deep you found it was really only an illusion.

Though Treville had not instructed the trio that they needed to keep an eye on their fourth, it automatically came with their 'all for' motto. The Captain had thoughtfully continued to arrange their schedules so one of them could keep an eye on their mending friend.

As Aramis was getting ready to rise from the wooden bench and ask around to see if anyone had seen Athos recently, his attention was diverted as the man in question rode through the Garrison's gate. Roger was moving at a most serene pace, well within the speed limits set by Treville. What caught Aramis' attention was the fact that the horse appeared damp. Though he was a distance from the horse, it didn't look like wet from sweat or wet from rain, which it had not done today. Further observation of the duo from his bench had Aramis coming to the conclusion that Athos' hair appeared damp too. The man's hair was always unruly at best, but now his waves seemed particularly curly and wild, though his shirt was definitely dry.

Curiosity getting the better of him, Aramis rose and was about to walk over and confront Athos when Treville walked out on his porch and called him into his office. With a sigh, Aramis ascended the stairs after taking a last look over his shoulder and seeing Athos disappear into the stable. The mystery would have to wait.

That night Porthos, d'Artagnan, and Aramis were seated around a table, at the Wren, sipping lukewarm wine and comparing notes of the day. Athos had refused their company with the excuse that sitting in a tavern would tempt him to break one of Treville's recovery rules and it would be much wiser for him to remain, alone, in his room. His brothers knew that it was a cop-out. Athos had more wine stashed in his rooms than most taverns and he was far more likely to drink himself into a drunken stupor, alone, without his brothers to temper his actions. However, Athos had remained most adamant when they stopped by his room that he was going to bed early, had wished them a pleasant evening, and had all but pushed them out the door before slamming it in their faces.

As they sat drinking, Aramis related the strange occurrence of the morning involving Athos and his horse. As he told his tale, he noted both Porthos and d'Artagnan beginning to frown.

"Funny, I saw something similar. I didn't see a wet Roger, but I did come across Athos now that you mention it. His hair was wet, yet as you said his shirt was dry. It was so hot I accused him of dunking his head in the horse trough to which he answered that on occasion, he'd been known to employ that technique." D'Artagnan thought a moment. "Though he didn't say that was the reason he was wet then."

Aramis smiled. "Ah, the famous Athos non-answer. He does that very well. Do you suppose it is a Comte thing? Or unique to our dear friend?"

"You may not have seen Roger that day, but I did and he was wet. I had gone into the stable to check on Flip's fetlock, where he nicked it. I saw Jacque leading Roger out to the small paddock in the back. He was talking to the beast, as he always does, asking him what his master was doing that he kept returning him wet to his stall."

"And did Roger answer?" D'Artagnan politely inquired, unable to wipe the smirk off his face.

"Roger might be smarter than you, boy, but he is not that smart," Porthos replied.

"Again with the boy," D'Artagnan sighed, his smirk gone and replaced by an irritated expression.

"Stop acting like a boy and I'll stop calling you a boy," Porthos sincerely suggested.

Aramis took control of the conversation before it got out of hand. The last thing he wanted to explain to Treville was how he had let his two best friends end up in a fist fight over terminology. "Any clues what our sneaky friend could be up to that gets his horse fully wet, but only his own head?"

"Maybe he's skinny dipping," Porthos offered as a joke. D'Artagnan laughed at the image that invaded his mind and Porthos joined him.

Aramis, however, grew thoughtful. "You may have hit upon it, Porthos. The pony."

"Pony, what pony?" the tall man questioned.

"Remember the day, after we had all been swimming, Athos telling us the story of the pony that swam?"

D'Artagnan thought for a moment, then recollected the day to which Aramis was referring. "Oh yea. Growing up. He had a pony that liked to swim."

"Exactly. And our dear brother also said that Roger had been known to swim on occasions." Aramis raised his mug and drained it. "I think Athos and Roger have been sneaking out to swim." He picked up the wine bottle and refilled his glass.

"Is swimming on the do or don't do list?" D'Artagnan asked, as he, too, drained his mug so it could be refilled.

Aramis halted mid-pour to ponder the question. Since he was taking too long, Porthos reached over, grabbed the bottle, and finished filling d'Artagnan's glass, then his own, before setting the container back on the scarred wooden table that had seen better days.

"I suppose," Aramis hypothesized, not the least bit put out by Porthos' actions, "it would depend on where and how vigorously. If it were a relatively clean body of water, decreasing the chance of infection..." he halted to take a drink. "... and considering swimming is probably a good way to strengthen weak muscles..."

"I dunno about that. I was raised to believe bathing was bad for you," the man from the Court of Miracles interjected, which earned him an eye roll from his table-mates. "Though I reckon that might have something to do with where I grew up," he grudgingly conceded.

"My mother believed cleanliness was next to godliness." Aramis' face grew thoughtful. "She did so hope I would become a Priest. Maybe that is why she made me take so many baths as a young lad."

Porthos and Aramis turned to their third member, expecting him to relay a childhood bath story, but he didn't share a tale.

Aramis raised his glass in a mock salute. "Well tomorrow gentleman, we will discreetly shadow our dear brother and get to the bottom of this wet and wild tale."


	47. Chapter 47

CHAPTER 47

D'Artagnan was doing some repair work on his saddle, in the far corner of the stable, where he was able to observe Roger's stall. He'd been working on his saddle for the last two hours and he'd do it for the rest of the day, if that was what it took; even though it was sweltering, smelly, and the flies were a tremendous bother in the stable, it was for his brother.

Porthos flipped another musketeer to the ground and a small cloud of dust wafted into the air. "Sorry about that," the big man muttered for the umpteen time that day. He raised his eyes to scan the crowd for his next victim. "Who's next?"

The star street fighter had been wrestling his fellow Musketeers for the last two hours, in the name of sharpening their skills. It was hot, dirty, boring work because none of them had enough skill to give him any type of run for his money. However, it offered him a good view of the Garrison's gate without being overly obvious. He'd wrestle men for the rest of the day, if that was what it took, because it was for his brother.

Outside the Garrison, in the small, open area adjacent to the home of the King's Musketeers, Aramis loitered by the public well assisting people in pulling up buckets of water. Because it was a scorcher, the well was extremely popular and his arms were beginning to ache from helping with the lifting. In his sojourn at the well, he had the dubious honor of meeting quite a few eccentric Parisians many, which if they were his neighbors, would make him definitely lock his door at night and take to keeping a knife under his pillow like Athos. However, as uncomfortable as it was, both physically and mentally, he would stay for the rest of the day as it offered a clear very of the outside of the entrance to the Garrison. When it all came down to it, in the end, he was here for his brother.

Athos moved across the courtyard stealthily, keeping a close eye out for his friends. It was going to be another barn-burner and sweat had already started trickling down his neck. He only had his linen shirt on, which was practically open to his belly button, and it was still miserable. He knew his friends were off-duty today en masse, and it struck him a bit odd that after they had finished their meal together this morning they had all scattered to the wind.

As he edged across the courtyard towards the stables, he spotted Porthos working with a group of Musketeers on their hand-to-hand combat. Porthos appeared totally absorbed in his activity and Athos didn't think the big guy had noticed him, which was exactly what the evasive musketeer desired.

Reaching the stable unnoticed, at least in his mind, Athos moved down the line of stalls until he arrived at the one where Roger was kept. Speaking in a low, reassuring voice to alert the horse of his presence, he slid open the door and entered the box stall. Roger walked over and chuffed in his chest, and Athos reached up and rubbed the beast's quivering nose, knowing exactly for what he was searching. With a chuckle, he drew a carrot from the waistband of the back of his pants, broke off a piece and offered it on a flat palm. Roger happily picked it up and crunched on the orange treat.

"You know," Athos addressed Roger as he fed him the rest of the carrot, "that vegetable merchant thought I was crazy buying carrots to feed to a mere horse. At one point, I thought he was going to refuse to sell me the carrots. So I lied and told him carrots were my favorite food."

The horse gave a little whinny, as he pressed his nose against Athos' chest in hopes of another carrot, making the man smile, as much as he ever did. He gave him a little, friendly, slap on the neck. "No more you pig. It wouldn't do well to have one of the King's Musketeers parading around the palace grounds on a fat horse."

The horse shook his head, in what appeared to be disgust, as if to say two carrots were not going to harm his magnificent physique. In reality, it was probably just a fly buzzing about his ear. Still, it was comical and d'Artagnan, who could hear and see what was happening from his shadowy venue, had to clap a hand over his mouth to keep silent. It wouldn't do well for his mentor to spot him.

Ignoring his saddle, Athos picked up Roger's bridle from the tack rack and worked it over his horse's ears, smoothing his thick black forelock after all was in place. Leading the horse out of his stall, Athos walked him down the aisle to a hay bale just inside the opening to the courtyard. The musketeer used this to propel himself onto Roger's bareback, shifting about until he was satisfied with his position. Then lying nearly flat on the stallion's neck, he urged the beast out the low, stable door. While a man sitting upright on a horse might not be able to pass underneath without conking his head, a man hunched over certainly would pass in safety.

Once in the courtyard, Athos spared a quick glance in Porthos' direction, but the man was still engrossed in his teaching. Without a fuss, Athos casually rode Roger out the Garrison gate, bareback, as he had done the last three days. The only difference was those days he truly hadn't been observed, but today all three of his brothers noted his departure.

As soon as Athos passed through the gate, Porthos abruptly stopped his lessons and sprinted towards the stable and was met by d'Artagnan who was leading Flip and Zad from the interior.

Porthos took his horse's reins, tossed them over the tall horse's black tipped ears, and swiftly mounted. "He's off."

"As are we," d'Artagnan replied, as he too settled in his saddle.

They headed out the gate where they were joined by Aramis, who had stashed his mount outside the Garrison's walls. "He went that way," Aramis indicated with his right hand. "Best not to let him get too far ahead or we risk losing him."

"Yeah, but he spots us..." d'Artagnan countered, with a slight tilt of his head.

"Then we will have an entertaining story to listen to as he comes up with some reasonable explanation on why he is riding Roger, bareback, out of uniform, through the streets of Paris. Let's ride!" Aramis urged his horse into a walk and started down the street where Athos disappeared.

Once outside the limits of Paris proper and into the countryside, all hopes of remaining unseen faded away. By now, given the openness of the terrain, the three were sure that Athos knew they were trailing him. Athos urged Roger into an easy canter and his stalkers followed suit. As they were no longer trying to hide, they pushed their mounts to catch up to Roger. In a short time, they rode four abreast across the meadow.

Athos gave them a quick, unreadable glance when they drew aside, before focusing his eyes straight ahead between Roger's pitch black ears and reining him back to a walk.

"When did you spot us?" Aramis asked, out of curiosity.

"It was painfully obvious when you rode en masse out the gate. Before that, Porthos in the courtyard, dArtagnan at the stable, and you at the well." Athos gave a little shrug to end his dissertation.

"At least I wasn't trying to hide," Porthos defended his position.

"Hiding in plain sight is still hiding," Athos declared. "Oh. And D'Artagnan, what passes between a man and his horse is private business," he warned the younger musketeer in no uncertain terms.

"I never told what happened at the mansion with Milady, did I." In his efforts to prove he could be trusted, d'Artagnan accidentally spilled the secret Athos had asked him to keep. Horror flashed across his young man's face as he realized his mistake. "Athos. I'm so sorry." The tightening in his mentor's shoulders told him Athos was upset, even if his face remained disimpassioned.

"Well, it looks like we're going to be learning a lot from you today, Athos," Porthos surmised, putting the man on notice. "By the way, where are we going?"

"Swimming," was the one word answer he got as Athos urged his horse back into a canter. His brothers followed suit, admiring the ease at which Athos rode bareback. The man truly did have a good seat and balance that spoke of natural talent, enhanced by skilled training.

Ten minutes later, Athos slowed his horse to a walk, turned off the track they'd been following, and entered into the forest. Picking their way in and around the tree trunks, they eventually broke free of the woods, entering a grassy area that ran straight down to the Seine.

The river, in this location, was wide and slow moving, almost as if it were a giant lake. Athos rode up to the river's edge before sliding off of Roger's back. The horse's ears were pricked forward and he seemed eager to enter the water. Athos gave Roger a stern warning to wait, while he shucked out of his shirt and breeches. His scars stood out in stark contrast against his pale skin, but he wouldn't give anyone the satisfaction of pitying him, so he acted as if his skin were as clear and unblemished as a newborn babe.

Gathering up the reins, he led Roger into the water and when it was deep enough that Roger could swim, he scrambled up on his horse's broad black back. His brothers watched in amazement as the war horse turned fish, enjoyed himself; paddling about with Athos clinging to his back like a barnacle.

D'Artagnan was somewhat amazed by what he saw happening. "That horse really can swim!"

Aramis slid off his mount onto the ground, drawing the leather reins over his horse's head. "Our dear Comte doesn't lie." He paused for a moment thinking that statement over then added, "Well maybe that's not quite true. But, if you listen closely, you can learn to tell the difference between truth and Athos' truth."

Porthos was also on the ground and was starting to strip out of his leathers. "It's hot. Swimming looks like a great idea to me."

"I thought you didn't like to get wet," d'Artagnan reminded him. "Unless it was for a good cause."

Porthos dropped his shirt on the grass and shrugged. "It is good cause. I'm hot." Now stripped down to his undergarments, Porthos eyed Flip. "Since I'm still mastering swimming, I don't need no horse mucking around with me in the water." Flip seemed to agree, showing no inclination to join Roger in the water. Instead, he moved a few steps away and contently munched on the grass.

D'Artagnan and Aramis shucked their garments and soon the three of them were wallowing in the shallows like a bunch of adolescent boys, which truth be told, they often resembled. The three men splashed about, dunking each other and being boisterous. Other than Roger, the other horses were content to stay on the dry land.

Athos kept apart from his companion's horse play, staying further out with Roger and using him as a floatation device as well as a diving platform. His fellow Musketeers were amazed at Athos' prowess in the water; he seemed right at home in the liquid environment. At one point, when Roger was standing in deep water up to his neck, Athos scrambled on his back, then rose to his feet, balancing on the horse's broad hindquarters. From there, Athos sprang forth into a shallow dive, using his horse's rump as a launch platform.

At one point, when Roger was standing peacefully in the water and Athos was resting, draped over the horse's broad, black back, d'Artagnan decided to swim out and joined him. The other two men had already retreated to the bank to sun themselves dry. But d'Artagnan, being a farm boy raised around ponds, was content to remain in the water. With firm strokes, he swam to where his mentor and his horse were hanging out. He carefully wrapped a fist in Roger's thick mane and slung an arm over his back on the opposite side to Athos. Roger merely turned his head to see who was clinging to him. His big, liquid brown eyes showed nothing other than idle curiosity, not minding that there were now two men using him as a resting spot.

D'Artagnan flung his long, wet locks out of his eyes, and peered over Roger's back at Athos. "That diving. It's a cool trick."

Athos' eyes were tracking to an unseen point in the distance, which matched his tone of voice which was also distracted. "It's not hard; it just requires good balance." He paused for a moment, lost in some memory of his own that he wasn't sharing. "And, you have to be careful, not to dive deep, or you can snap your neck." As an afterthought he abstractedly tagged on, "I sometimes think my father was rather disappointed that didn't happen."

"Athos," d'Artagnan intoned with distress, sympathy, and reproach. "Surely that's not true," though the statement that Athos had once made, about Thomas being everyone's favorite, floated through his mind.

The older musketeer shrugged, the water rippling away from his shoulders. "You didn't know my father."

"But I know his son, and he is honorable, noble, generous, kind, brave... a man I am proud to call my friend, my mentor and my brother," D'Artagnan declared with passion.

Athos' green eyes flicked back to the boy's face, studying him for a moment as if seeking out the truth of the words. After a moment of contemplation, Athos declared in a dismissive voice, "You are mistaken."

With that, Athos pushed off Roger and swam for the river's bank. The horse, seeing him go, followed after him leaving d'Artagnan to swim back on his own.

Once they reached the shallows, Athos grabbed the side of Roger's bridle and led him out the river onto the grass, coming to stand near the two, nearly dry men, sunning their bodies. Athos placed his other hand on Roger's nose, something in the future his brothers would recognize as a warning sign.

"Have a nice swim?" Aramis asked lazily, twirling a stalk of grass between his long fingers, as he glanced at the dripping duo of man and horse.

Athos didn't answer the question, which was really rhetorical; as he let his eyes wander over his mostly dry brethren and their pile of dry clothes. D'Artagnan splashed out of the water, moving to stand by his middle brothers, before flinging his long, soaking wet hair out of his eyes

Fine droplets of water sailed through the air and a few landed on Aramis. "Mind the water works. You are worse than a wet mongrel, d'Artagnan," he complained even though the four drops of water that landed on him had already evaporated by the time he was done grousing. D'Artagnan simply grinned, as he slicked back his brown hair with his hand.

Removing his hand from Roger's bridle and the horse's velvety nose, Athos immediately moved twenty feet away from the animal, which stood stock still for a second next to the other three men. Then Roger flicked his ears as he lowered his neck a bit and gave a few mighty shakes of his coat that sent sheets of water raining through the air and down upon the three Musketeers. D'Artagnan, already wet, laughed and scooted away as Roger shook again. The reclining Porthos and more so Aramis were not as amused as they, and their once dry clothes, were drenched by the impromptu horse shower. They glared at the horse who like his owner, ignored them before giving a last and final shake.

Athos picked up his clothes, which had been safely stored out of the splash zone, walked back over to Roger and fed him a piece of carrot that had materialized from his possessions. The horse gently took it and happily crunched down on the orange treat.

Aramis glared at Athos, his brown eyes radiating his displeasure. "Was that strictly necessary, Athos?"

"Yes. It was. You followed me," was the dispassionate reply served up by Athos.

Porthos found that answer amusing for some reason and laughed, which earned him a glare from Aramis. "I don't like being wet," sulked the romantic musketeer.

"Don't worry. You ain't sugar. You won't melt," Porthos reassured him.

D'Artagnan moved next to Roger and stroked his damp neck. "Did you teach him to do that?"

"Not really. Horses, like dogs, instinctively shake. I merely learned to recognize the signs of an impending shake, so I could get out of range of the spray. My parents weren't pleased when I showed up at home in wet clothes. My governess was apt to suffer because of my transgressions. So, I found a way to...adapt," he explained with a tilt of his head. With that, he collected Roger's reins and started leading him away, up river.

The three men silently regarded each other before Porthos took action, rising to collect his horse and his clothes. "We'd best follow him."

Athos slowly led Roger upstream about half a mile towards an outcropping of rocks, which overhung the river. Dropping his clothes and weapons on a convenient rock ledge, he secured Roger's reins, so they wouldn't trip the animal, then let him roam freely. He knew the stallion was well-trained and content enough to munch on the succulent grass alongside the boulders. His brothers soon joined him and watched as Athos dug around a crevice between some of the stones, withdrew a bottle of wine, then one-handedly scrambled up the rocks until he reached a large, flattish area. Leveraging his body slowly onto the grey, sun-warmed surface, he leaned his scar-filled back against another boulder, shut his eyes, expertly uncorked the wine bottle, and took a long swig from its long green neck.

His brothers followed suit, leaving their horses and clothes below and scrambling up the rocks in their braies. Luckily, this seemed to be a secluded area because the four, fit, but scarred men, were quite a stunning sight, sunning themselves on the grey rocks overlooking the tranquil river in nothing but their undergarments.

"It is very peaceful here," Aramis noted, as he arranged his body in a more comfortable position against the sun-drenched boulders. There was the slightest hint of a breeze, which was keeping it quite pleasant. "This would be an excellent place for a romantic picnic."

"And by picnic he means liaison," Porthos translated for d'Artagnan in case the boy wasn't following.

Athos took another long drink from the wine bottle and as he lowered it from his lips, Aramis inquired, "You going to share, dear brother?" Wordlessly, and without opening his eyes, Athos unerringly handed the bottle to Aramis, who was sitting to his right. Next to Aramis sat d'Artagnan, and then Porthos.

"I know what we need," Porthos declared as he rose and headed back down the rocks towards the horses. A few seconds later he returned with his saddlebags, which he dropped on the rocks before settling on the left side of Athos, flanking him.

D'Artagnan raised an eyebrow at Porthos' new seat selection. "Did I do something wrong?" he jokingly inquired.

Porthos shook his dark curly head, as he rummaged thru his packs. "Nah. Matter of economics and fair share. If I sit next to you, I have to wait for the wine bottle to pass from him," he reached over and patted Athos on his bicep, "through him," he pointed to Aramis who was presently in possession of the item in question, "and then you before I get my turn. That's too damn long." He reached over Athos and expertly plucked the wine from Aramis' hand, taking a slug and grinning.

One had to admire Athos' situational awareness, even with his eyes seemingly closed, as he reached over and once more commandeered the bottle before Porthos could take a second drink. Taking his third long draught, Athos finally opened his eyes, as he handed the bottle off to Aramis again.

Aramis took his mouthful, and then appeared as if to hand it back to Athos. "Hey! It's my turn!" d'Artagnan reminded him.

Porthos looked up from digging in his bags. "Whadda I tell you, whelp. Too long." With a flourish, he made bread, cheese, dried meat and fruit appear from his cornucopia. As one, his brother's tilted their heads to the side and squinted at him. "What. Didn't know how long we'd be gone, so I packed a snack."

"Snack?" d'Artagnan questioned, as he lunged over to snag the wine and an apple. "This is your idea of a snack?"

Porthos merely shrugged in reply, as he stuffed some cheese and meat inside a piece of bread.

All the men, except Athos, eagerly dug into Porthos' repast and when Aramis noted the omission, he ripped off a chunk of bread and shoved it in Athos' hands. "You're not drinking on an empty stomach, my friend" he informed the man, who gave him the evil eye. The two men entered into a short contest of wills, where amazingly, Athos backed down by raising the bread to his lip, taking a bite and chewing, though it was clear he wasn't a happy camper.

"Good boy," Aramis teased, patting him on the arm. "I don't want to be trying to get you on that horse of yours in an inebriated state. No telling what other nasty tricks you have taught that beast."

Athos' response was to keep chewing on the bread, though the slight flicker of mischievousness that crossed his eyes led Aramis to believe he was making a wise choice. He quickly grabbed a piece of cheese and shoved it at Athos too. "Your ill-mannered horse so far has pushed me in a river and now drenched me in the form of a rain shower. I'm beginning to believe he doesn't like me." Aramis adopted a pouty, slightly wounded expression.

D'Artagnan reached over to grab some more food, giving Aramis a slap on the shin as he was passing over. "Save that act for the ladies. It won't work on us."

Aramis replaced his pout, with a grin, as he took control of the wine bottle.

"So you come here to brood and escape us," Porthos confronted Athos in his direct, forthright manner.

Athos shifted slightly, displaying his discomfort with the conversational direction. "Yes. Sometimes," he grudgingly admitted, as he shoved a piece of cheese in his mouth, as if that would stop the conversation in its tracks.

"That's just wrong, ya know," Porthos stated as if it were the best known fact in the world. "What I don't get about you, Athos, is why, after all we have been through together, you still don't get we are your brothers. We won't abandon you. We won't hurt you. And no matter what you've done in the past, or do in the future, we will love you. We will always be here for you."

A sharp intake of Athos' breath told that the words had hit home. Warring expressions raced across his face, as in a rare moment of vulnerability, Athos, didn't try to hide his emotions. Pain, disbelief, amazement and finally a little hope played across his countenance. Bowing his head, he choked out in his halting style, "I'm not worthy... of such a gift."

Aramis moved and knelt next to Athos, bending his head to rest his chin on top of Athos head as he wrapped an arm around the emotionally overwrought man. "Yes, you are, my brother." Porthos moved to join in the soul-affirming hug and d'Artagnan, newest to the group, but sharing the same sentiments, also drew near placing his hands on Athos' legs in support.

Athos, overwhelmed by the display of love and acceptance from his brothers, unabashedly let silent tears run down his cheeks. He would willingly lay his life down for any of these fine men. Yet, he had a hard time understanding why they'd return the favor for he still felt he didn't deserve it.

When the moment had played out, Aramis placed a gentle kiss on the top of Athos' bowed head, before shifting to sit against the rocks. Porthos did the same and d'Artagnan was content to give his mentor's leg an affectionate squeeze, not thinking he had the liberties of the other men quite yet.

After their emotional moment organically passed, Porthos picked up his conversation. "None of this would have happened," he flicked a finger at the myriad of healing wounds on Athos' body, "if you'd simply had told us it was Thomas' birthday. We wouldn't have intruded, but merely watched over you to keep you safe. Help you through your grief. That is what brothers do."

Athos raised his head, before habitually running a hand thru his messy locks, pushing the damp tendrils away from his eyes. "I had one brother, who I failed. I don't want that to happen again, with you." His pain-filled eyes sought out each and every one of them.

"Rubbish," Aramis contradicted him. "You loved your brother, very much, and what happened was a tragic accident. But the blame isn't yours."

Porthos captured Athos' eyes with his own. "Maybe if you opened up to us a little more, we could help you. We all had issues in our upbringing. Me, the son of a white nobleman and a black woman. Ignored by one and raised by the other until she died from sickness when I was five. There was times when I felt worthless, let myself do terrible things. But one day I decided screw the world. I liked who I was, who I could envision myself to be. It wasn't easy, but I took my destiny in my own hands and didn't let anyone define me."

"And I admire you for that Porthos," Athos sincerely stated. "You have a courage that is greater than anyone of us. You are truly noble, no matter what other short-sighted people think."

"So what the hell happened to you that makes you so hard on yourself?" Porthos demanded of Athos, not backing down from this tough, overdue conversation.

The man in question gestured for the wine bottle, which Aramis reluctantly handed over. Athos drained the remainder, before placing the empty green bottle gently on the rock surface next to him. He closed his eyes and tipped his head back, raising his face to the sun's rays. While his face remained impassive, his fingers had curled into a fist alongside his thighs. Finally, he reopened his eyes and stared out across the river.

"I wanted for no material items, as a child. I didn't live in poverty, didn't have to steal to eat, or work the land. I didn't have to wear hand-me-down clothes. I had a solid roof over my head that could never be taken away from me for failure to pay the taxes. I had both a mother and a father. I had everything for which most people wish."

He paused for a moment to drag a weary hand through his still damp hair. His brothers remained quiet, not offering up meaningless platitudes that would merely be shrugged off.

"My father," Athos went on, "was a strict man, very much a nobleman in everything he did: his actions, his clothes and his sense of who he was. Being a nobleman fit my father like a glove. He was born into the roll, as were the countless generations of de la Feres before him. When I was born, he saw his duty and heritage being kept alive by the delivery of a male child. One of France's premier families would continue on."

Athos' eyes softened as he spoke of his mother. "My mother was the daughter of a noble family. She was raised to know her duty and she didn't find being a Comte's wife the least bit of a burden. She relished the role, keeping the household operating, entertaining as was required of a Comte's wife, fitting in with the ladies of the palace when she attended functions. She nobly bore her husband two sons, cementing her place in his eyes and societies. She loved her children, in her own way, though she left most of their upbringing to others, as was tradition." Athos fell silent again.

"That sounds cold," d'Artagnan remarked. "My Dad taught me everything I know and my Mom was always my biggest supporter. My mother and father loved each other and it was plain to see."

Athos gave the boy a knowing smile. "Something money can't buy. My parent's marriage was arranged and they respected each other, but did they truly love each other? I think they were driven more by a sense of duty than any other emotion. Perhaps, that is why I fell so hard for Anne."

Athos' reached for the wine bottle, only remembering at the last moment it was drained. "D'Artagnan, the crevice next to my clothes, there is another bottle of wine there. Go get it."

The boy effortlessly rose to do as commanded, while Athos scrubbed a hand over his eyes. "I can't do this sober," Athos stated to the wind.


	48. Chapter 48

CHAPTER 48

When d'Artagnan returned with the wine, Athos uncorked it and took a long pull, though when he was done, he didn't relinquish the bottle.

"I never was the child my parents needed me to be. The first born. The future Comte. My birth order gave me that title, but my brother was far better suited to the role. I was by no means stupid, and could easily absorb the lessons my father put before me, but I found most of the proper subjects, tedious, except military strategy. My father approved of my interest in military strategy, since we were required to supply a militia, in times of war."

With a sigh, Athos took another slug of wine and Aramis couldn't help wondering if he would stay clear-headed enough to finish his tale.

"It didn't help that I was...clumsy. My parents found my lack of coordination inconvenient, especially when it manifested around others, which it inevitability did. And an injury to my lip when I was young made my speech...awkward for a time. I much preferred to remain silent in social situations, again to my parent's chagrin. These traits were not what a parent hoped for in their son that was supposed to be the next Comte de la Fere. I gained mastery of my limbs, and my speech, and a mustache disguised my...scar, but by then it was too late."

Another slug was required by Athos to obtain the courage required to continue. His voice grew ragged as his story continued and the subject of Thomas came up. "Thomas' birth was a joyous occasion. Five years separated us and I believe my father had given up hope of any additional children. As Thomas grew, it was evident to all that he was the child that my parent's had hoped for as to continue their lineage. He had a sunny and charming disposition, getting out of any mischief he got into with a smile and a flash of his bright blue eyes. He was graceful, athletic, fun to be around, and possessed a quick wit. He wasn't as good at his studies as I was, but I don't think he ever really applied himself that hard. He was too busy enjoying life; Thomas was everyone's favorite."

Athos paused for a moment of inner reflection, but didn't reach for the wine. "And he accepted me as I was, never trying to change me. I loved him and vowed to protect him; and we see how that turned out."

Athos' eyes turned dark and he raised the bottle to his lips, draining a third of it. His three brothers exchanged glances, fearing Athos would drink himself into a stupor given the heat, lack of food and emotional roller coaster he was riding.

"When our mother died, Thomas didn't handle it well. They were close. She had been much more involved in raising him then was customary. She often told her friends he was a joy to be around and raised her spirits."

His friends couldn't help thinking it must have hurt the young Athos to be so overlooked by his own parents.

"After my mother's death, my father grew stricter, especially with me; perhaps feeling his own mortality creeping up on him. He was determined I would be a proper successor. He dismissed both my sword-master and horse-master for no other reason than he felt I was devoting too much time to those pursuits, and not enough to learning how to run the estate. And it was true; whenever I had a moment, I would be practicing with my sword, or in the stable." He gave a sad little smile. "Horses don't expect you to talk a lot. My father solved the problem by firing both of my instructors. I caused them to lose their jobs and there was nothing I could do to reverse my father's decision."

Athos hit the wine bottle hard again before continuing. "As my father occupied more of my time with the affairs of the estate, Thomas was left to his own devices and without my mother's influence he got into a few...scrapes. I tried to help, smooth over the incidents, and shift the blame to me. Some of the people of the village, as well as my father, came to think that I, their future Comte was... irresponsible, which made things...harder...when my father died.

"But it wasn't you! Couldn't your father see that?" d'Artagnan interrupted, his face registering his outrage.

A sad little smile appeared on Athos' face that said he was inwardly reflecting. "We hear and see what we want to, d'Artagnan. Surely you have learned that lesson by now."

The boy hung his head a little in acknowledgement. Hadn't he tried to kill this very man the first time he met him based on what he heard and saw?

"My father died and suddenly the thing I wanted least in life was thrust upon me; Comte de la Fere. I was expected to make decisions, run the household, handle the affairs of the people of the estate, all the things I was trained to do by my father. I went through the motions because it was expected of me and I tried to resign myself to my place in this world."

"And Thomas?" Aramis prompted when Athos stopped and lifted the wine bottle again.

Athos halted the bottle's ascent before it reached his lips. "Thomas," he echoed, lowering the vessel without drinking. "He left the estate for a while, traveling, visiting friends, and acquaintances of our family. I missed him." The loneliness Athos felt when Thomas left echoed in his voice.

"Over the next few years, Thomas came and went and I became the Comte de la Fere, though I was nothing like my father. I never entertained and rarely went to any events, unless absolutely required by social convention. Even then, I stayed the minimum amount of time to be...respectful. It was a relief to my hosts, as well as I."

His frustration became evident in his face as he recalled his fellow nobleman. "They were so rigid in their social order. The changes in the way I began to run my estate made them...uncomfortable." Athos made a huffing noise. "Most of the people of Piñon liked the changes and I believe my _neighbors_ were afraid their tenants would want the same."

Porthos offered up some wise words of wisdom. "Change frightens people. Anything that is different."

After taking another hit from the wine bottle, Athos agreed. "Perhaps I should have been more afraid of change. Maybe I wouldn't have fallen for so hard for Anne. She was so different from the girls my parents foisted on me. Every time I was forced to go to an event, fathers paraded their daughters in front of me like horses for sale at an auction. It was...degrading. They were nice women I suppose, just very conventional. They were raised for the sole purpose of making the best marriage they could and then to start a family of their own. Then she came into my life."

There was no mistaking by the tone of his voice, exactly who _she_ was. He nearly drained the wine bottle in an effort to find the courage to continue.

"I had to go to Paris on some business of the estate; a gathering of land owners. Tedious, but necessary. On my way back I came across Milady, her carriage on the side with a broken wheel. She said she was on the way to Paris, to visit some old friends of the family. As it was getting towards evening, and the wheel was not going to be easily fixed, I offered to bring her to Paris. We had a most pleasant conversation as we rode to the city. I brought her to the address of her friends and before I left, I found I had promised to meet her again."

A small smile came unbidden to his face. "I didn't even realize it was happening, but soon she was the only thing I could think of day and night. She was witty, bright, and, like Thomas, she accepted me as I was. No hidden terms, or at least that is what I thought. She was nothing like the women I was 'supposed' to marry. I introduced her to Thomas and his betrothed, Catherine. I thought Thomas liked her, though it was clear Catherine found her...lacking. I dismissed Catherine's opinions, feeling she was not able to be impartial. At one time, Catherine and I were supposed to be wed; that had been our father's plan. But after Anne came into my life, I knew I would never be able to wed Catherine."

They had all met Catherine and had a hard time imagining her and Athos as a couple.

"Thomas' bitterness about our parent's death passed," Athos continued. "He became a responsible man, helped with the estate, and somewhere along the line had grown fond of Catherine. He told me he wished to marry her and I gave him my blessing. I knew I could never love Catherine as I loved Anne, and she deserved more. I hoped Thomas could make her happy. Anne and I wed first, a small ceremony, which Catherine felt was highly improper for the Comte de la Fere. But Anne assured me it was fine with her, she didn't need trappings and formalities. We were eager to marry."

The emotional toll that the telling of this tale was having on Athos, along with the heat, fatigue, and the two bottles of wine finally caught up with him and his body began to sag. Aramis reached out a steadying hand on one side, and Porthos the other, as Athos closed his eyes.

"I was so stupid. So blind. So naive. Thomas and Anne had been in the upstairs parlor when I came back from handling an issue in Piñon. I had run into Catherine earlier and she said she'd see me at the house later, as she and Thomas had some wedding details to go over. The wedding she was planning for her and Thomas was 'proper' and I didn't begrudge them that. I was married to Anne, we were deeply in love, and I was incredibly happy for the first time in my life."

Without even thinking about what he was doing, Athos' hand clenched around the neck of the empty wine bottle.

"I entered the house and heard Catherine screaming for me; yelling that my wife had murdered my brother. I rushed upstairs and there was my beautiful Anne, holding a bloody knife, as my only brother, the one I had sworn to protect with my life, lay dead on the floor. She said she had no choice, that he had tried to force her, and that she had loved me. I was such a fool!"

From the mounting pressure, the empty wine bottle shattered in Athos' hand, shards spraying across the rocks as well as embedding themselves into his left palm.

"Athos!" Aramis shouted, grabbing the dazed man's wrist to keep him from closing his hand and injuring his palm anymore.

The green eyes slowly opened and focused on the red blood dripping from his hand. He started talking in a tone filled with anguish. "There was so much blood. On the knife. On her hand. On his shirt. On the floor. It never came clean. It was right that place burned and I should have died with it!"

Bowing his head in misery, he buried his face in the crook of his right elbow and sobbed. Aramis kept a tight hold on Athos' left hand, which still had pieces of glass protruding from it, while placing his free hand against the grieving man's shoulder. In a reenactment of an earlier scene, Porthos leaned over and gently pulled Athos into a secure embrace against his broad chest. D'Artagnan, not to be left out, reached over and grasped the distressed man's leg, to ensure Athos that all his brother's shared in his pain.

Athos mildly fought against his brother's sympathy and kindness, trying to pull back from their embrace because he felt he didn't deserve it. However, they were insistent and firm, not allowing him to pull away. Eventfully, fatigue got the better of him and the tension began to drain from his limbs as he simply gave up fighting and surrendered to their compassion.

His brothers felt Athos' resistance draining and they continued to hold him tight, each trying to reassure the man that he was loved, and amongst friends. His sobs ended and he silently remained with his head buried in Porthos' chest, the large man's calloused hand soothingly rubbing his back.

Aramis withdrew his free hand from Athos' shoulder to take a better look at the battered man's bleeding left hand, while Porthos kept Athos' head against him.

"D'Artagnan. Go to my saddlebags, grab my kit, some bandages and the small bottle of alcohol," the medic instructed. While waiting for his supplies, Aramis critically examined Athos' palm and was pretty sure the glass cuts were mostly superficial and hadn't reached the tendons.

By the time d'Artagnan got back with the requested supplies, plus a canteen of water, Athos was sitting up, though he was still braced against Porthos' shoulder for moral and physical support. With a nod of thanks, Aramis took the items and placed them within easy reach on the rock next to him. He decisively reached out his left hand, placed three fingers under Athos' bearded chin, and gently rotated his face so the man was forced to look at him.

"This wasn't one of your more brilliant moves, Athos. If you had severed your tendons it could have been crippling to the operation of your hand."

The eyes that stared into his were a dark, muddy green and uncomprehending; Athos was still deeply lost in his past. "Hey. Athos." Aramis give Athos' chin a little shake. "I need you back here, with me."

The eyes slowly blinked and refocused first on Aramis' concerned face, before sliding down to peer at his own bleeding hand. "How did that happen?" Athos was clearly confused by what he was seeing. His eyes wandered to the broken glass from the wine bottle that littered the rock surface, and then back to the pieces still embedded in his hand. "Oh," he intoned in comprehension before looking off into the distance.

Aramis released his chin and gave him a little slap on the cheek. "Oh indeed." Competently, he began working on the wounds, first rinsing them with water until he got most of the blood cleared away; he needed a clear field of vision.

"This will probably be a bit unpleasant. Do you still have enough wine in you to take the edge off?" His attempt at lightening the situation with a touch of levity worked, earning him a slight lifting of the corner of Athos' mouth.

"Just do it," the injured man growled, but without menace.

Porthos watched as Aramis carefully maneuvered the shards from the flesh of the palm. While he was by no means a squeamish person, suddenly he turned away. "I'm heading back." With that terse statement, Porthos scrambled off the rocks.

"But why..." D'Artagnan questioned, but the man was already on the ground.

Aramis had an idea what was going on but kept it to himself for the moment. "D'Artagnan. Go with him. I think Porthos could use the company."

A skeptical grimace appeared on the young man's face. "I don't think he looked like he wanted company. Unless it was someone to punch."

"Go. Trust me. I need to finish here," Aramis instructed him.

Still appearing dubious, D'Artagnan slid down off the boulders, hurried over to Zad and took off after Porthos, who already had left on Flip.


	49. Chapter 49

CHAPTER 49

Athos watched with mild curiosity as one angry brother, and one confused one, rode off on their horses to go back to the Garrison.

"Of all of us..." Aramis began conversationally as he went back to working on Athos' injured hand, which was still dripping blood on the warm grey rocks. "Porthos is the one who is most affected by your moods. He takes your melancholy, your darkness to heart even more so than young d'Artagnan."

Athos remained mute, but Aramis could see the bewilderment in those expressive green eyes, and he decided to try to connect the dots for the man.

"D'Artagnan, you, and I had siblings growing up. Porthos wasn't as lucky. Yes, he ran the streets with other children, but he had no real family other than his mother. After his mother died, the Court of Miracles became his pseudo-family, but I don't think it ever felt quite right to Porthos. His ideology and theirs collided. That is why he left to seek a different path in life; to find one that fit his principles. When he joined the Musketeers, the regiment became his new surrogate family. Having a family is near and dear to Porthos' generous heart."

Aramis refocused his attention on Athos' hand, angling another piece of glass loose. Athos was unable to stifle a little hiss from escaping his lips as the glass broke free of his flesh and blood welled from the gash.

"Sorry," Aramis replied by rote without looking upwards. "When Porthos lets someone into his inner circle, the people he considers his immediate family, he becomes very protective of them. You, my friend, are part of the inner circle and you're breaking his heart with your actions. He loves you yet you frustrate him and he doesn't know what to do about it. That is why he left here in anger."

Athos regarded the medic-musketeer with perplexity. "I love Porthos as if he were my flesh and blood brother. I will always protect him from harm and gladly trade my life for his without hesitation."

Aramis sat back on his heels and raised his earnest brown eyes to meet those of his brother's, as an implacable expression settled on his face. "But can you give up the demons of your past for him? Because that is what angers him, frightens him. Porthos understands and accepts you may die honorably in battle, defending King and Country. That, after all, is the life of a Musketeer."

Aramis' disenchantment with Athos was clearly evident in the way he slowly shook his head. "What he can't accept is you dying due to your own recklessness. Your disregard for your own life. Porthos is terrified because he doesn't know how to stop you from self-destructing."

Aramis paused, his eyes wandering off to the horizon, in reflection, for a moment. When he continued, his voice was deadly serious. "You scare all of us, Athos, with your behavior. We love you, yet can't bear watching you destroy yourself.

Athos' mind whirled under the onslaught of the emotions being thrown at him. He didn't know what to say or how to react. Part of him wanted to simply bolt; run away from this onerous conversation. Yet another part of him urged him to stay, listen, and try to learn. Nervously, running a hand though his wavy mussed hair, he remained silent and introspective as he pondered on what Aramis had revealed.

Aramis let his eyes shift back to Athos' face, trying to recapture the man's attention. Compassion and warmth flowed from the marksman as he spoke. "Do you really believe you are such an evil man, Athos, that God should remove you from this earth to make it a better place?"

Giving Athos time to ruminate on his query, Aramis looked away, picked up the flask of alcohol, and made ready to pour it over Athos' injured palm. "This will sting," he warned.

Athos gave him a slight frown, as if to say what the medic had done to date hadn't been a walk in the park. The former Comte clenched his teeth and gave a short nod that Aramis interpreted as permission to commence, so he flooded Athos' wounds.

Unable to stop his instincts when his brain registered the pain, Athos rapidly jerked his hand away after the first stream of liquid fire hit it. His mind and body were both reeling with agony; one from Aramis' words and one from the flaring pain in his hand.

Aramis knew he was pushing his brother hard by making him face some ugly truths and he prayed it would compel Athos to reexamine his life and his choices. No one can force another to change, but one can show someone there are different paths that can be followed. That is what Aramis hoped he was doing; showing Athos, he had another path upon which he could walk. It was a path where he had brothers that would always forgive him his transgressions and would always love him.

Needing to give a bit of respite from heavy mood that had settled about them, Aramis stopped trying to pour the brandy over Athos' hand. Cocking his head to the side, he gave Athos a sly smile. "Pouring it on the rock doesn't help your hand and is a waste of a good brandy. Hold your hand still, let me disinfect it, and you can have whatever is left over to drink."

"Bribery?" Athos drolly questioned, protectively hugging his hand to his chest as he tried to slow his racing heart and calm his ragged breathing.

Aramis' lips twitched, as he shrugged his shoulders. "I could punch you and knock you out. You'd be still and I could be conservative in my usage of this fine brandy. And then," he said with a widening grin, "I could drink what is left."

With a flicker of amusement in his eyes, Athos grudgingly extended his hand again and this time valiantly held it in place while the fiery liquid rained over it.

When he was satisfied it was well disinfected, Aramis tipped the flask up, then handed it over to Athos.

Athos took it gratefully and then gave it a little shake, before mildly grousing, "You couldn't have left a little more?"

"Do you want your hand to get infected?" Aramis calmly countered.

"Point taken," Athos drolly acknowledged, with his characteristic head tilt. Before raising the flask to his own lips, he graciously held it out to Aramis, who acknowledged the offer with a smile, as he negatively shook his head.

"You need it more than I, brother," Aramis said waving away the flask.

Athos raised the flask to his mouth and drained the meager contents in one swift gulp. The potent spirits burned down his throat into his empty belly, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. He closed his eyes, settled against the rock, and let the warmth spread throughout him, while Aramis finished bandaging his hand.

Aramis wasn't ready for this conversation to end. He was worried he hadn't really broken through Athos' barriers. "You have not answered my question," Aramis stated as he tucked in the end of the bandage. "Do you really believe you are such an evil man that God should remove you from this earth to make it a better place?"

Aramis took the empty flask, put it with the rest of the supplies he didn't use, then sat back and waited for Athos' response. As he waited, Aramis made a silent imploration to God to give this man the courage to open his heart and soul.

"Perhaps, I don't know how to answer your question. God. Inherent evilness. These things are beyond the scope of me." Athos shifted his gaze out over the water, watching the shimmer of the heat waves reflect off its surface. "I have hurt a lot of people with my actions. My father, my mother, my brother, the people of Pinon, Catherine…" his voice trailed off. Distress marred his handsome features, as he continued. "Then there is the countless number of others that Anne has destroyed, either by her own hand or by her beguiling. Ones that would still be alive had I successfully carried out my duty. My obligation to put her to death. But no, at that, I failed too."

It was obvious to Aramis that Athos was being ingenuous and he knew it was taking an emotional toll on the man. Aramis remained quiet and supportive, not pushing Athos to continue until he was ready.

Pausing, Athos took a few moments to get his emotions under control. When he started talking again, his voice was even and factual. "Am I evil?" He casually shrugged. "I'd like to think not." His face grew dark with anguish, his voice filled with wretchedness as his deepest, darkest confession tumbled from his lips. "But I do know I consistently hurt the people I love!"

Shakily running his uninjured hand over his tousled head to rub the back of his sweaty neck, Athos drew a deep breath before continuing. "I too, like Porthos, am scared. I'm terrified that, one day, Anne will decide the best way for her to take revenge on me is by killing everyone I hold dear. If not her, then any of the other people I have made enemies of over the years."

He dropped his trembling hand into his lap, closed his woeful eyes, and wearily leaned his head to rest against the rock. "The nightmare I had when we were traveling back to Paris; the one you attributed to my fever."

Athos swallowed hard, lost in remembrance as he brokenly recapped the nightmare to Aramis. "It was so...vivid. The pyre. Being tied to the post. The people that I had a hand in killing gathered round the base. Stacked up like pieces of wood. Chanting that it was all my doing. Bursting into flames before dissolving into ashes. Me, fighting to get free. Failing. You three walking towards me. Flames licking at your bodies, melting your features, turning you to ashes. Me, begging, pleading with God to spare you but..."

Athos dropped his head to his chest, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, as a lone tear escaped to travel down his cheek. "I fear that dream is a prediction of reality."

This was the second time Athos had recited this horrifying nightmare to Aramis. However, now was not the time to offer comfort to Athos. Now was the time to drive home his message, so Aramis steeled himself and frankly spoke.

"If you keep acting like you are, it will become a reality. You make it damn hard for us to protect you when you constantly push us away. And make no mistake, Athos. We will protect you. No matter what."

Athos slowly raised his head as he opened his eyes.

"You want that dream to become a reality? Remain your infuriatingly stoic self. Keep pushing us away. But realize we, your brothers, won't stop trying to help you and one day that might get us killed."

A wild gleam entered Athos' eyes and his voice rose in fury. "Don't you see? That is exactly what I'm saying! It is simple. Leave me alone and you will be safe."

"Stop pushing us away and we will be safe," Aramis rapidly countered. "Let us help! Share your pain! Watch over you! And if we die, we will do so knowing we have defended each other, our brothers whom we love, to the bitter end."

Suddenly, all the emotion drained out of Athos. He sagged against the rock, hand cradled to his chest, as he focused his gaze across the river. As the silence dragged on, Aramis began to feel he had failed, once again, to reach Athos with his words. His eyes sought out those of his brother who finally turned away from contemplating the horizon to gaze upon Aramis.

"I'll think upon your words," Athos slowly eked out.

A small, satisfied smile crept across Aramis' face as he searched Athos' countenance and found nothing but sincerity painted upon it. Those five words were a big concession from this deeply troubled man.

Feeling Athos might need some time, alone, to assimilate what had transpired here today, Aramis rose before reaching down and giving Athos a friendly pat on the shoulder. "I'll see you back at the Garrison. Be careful of your hand when you ride home. We will be waiting for you."

Gathering up his used supplies, Aramis climbed down the rocks, and then rode off leaving Athos alone.

When Aramis arrived at the Garrison, without Athos, d'Artagnan and Porthos were immediately concerned, but he quickly assured them Athos was fine. "Athos will always be, Athos. But I think, with our continued support, he will be able to put some of his demons to rest."


	50. Chapter 50

CHAPTER 50

Later that evening, as the red sun was setting, Athos rode through the Garrison's gate, his left hand cradled against his abdomen. Stopping Roger in the courtyard, he slid off the chargers' back before handing the reins over to the stable boy. Having already scanned the area as he rode in, he knew his three brethren were not in sight. A small sigh escaped his lips, as for once, he actually sought their company. He had much to tell them.

He dejectedly dragged his tired body off to his room, mentally chiding himself for expecting his brothers to be waiting for him. Wearily opening the door, he stumbled across the threshold before raising his eyes and seeing Aramis, Porthos, and d'Artagnan sitting at his table. His eyes and face lit up with a rare, real smile. "You're here!" he burst out.

"And where else would we be?" Aramis inquired politely.

Athos' astonished expression said it all. He had not expected, after the way he treated them, to find them here. As the rush of adrenaline from his surprise, drained from his healing body, he wobbled causing d'Artagnan to immediately leap from his chair and move to his side. Placing a steadying hand on Athos' bicep, he steered the unsteady man to the bed and encouraged him to sit, which the swordsman did without a fuss. Over at the table, Porthos raised a questioning eyebrow at Aramis who answered with a discrete shrug; this was not typical behavior from their leader who usually eschewed all forms of emotion as well as personal assistance.

Athos resignedly perched on the edge of his bed, staring moodily down at his hands, which were dangling between his bent knees. Aramis had the distinct feeling that Athos would have been wringing them together, if not for the fact the left one was swaddled in a bandage. It was painfully obvious that their usually fearless, stalwart leader was lost as to how to proceed. The trio didn't push or prod him. Athos would reveal what was on his mind or he wouldn't, but either way they would support his decision.

Athos sat on his bed struggling with his inner self. He knew he owed his brothers the tale of what had happened at the estate; the things that were done to him, the things he had done, as well as the consequences. Aramis had told him earlier, at the river, that his brothers would forgive his transgressions and he wanted, badly, to believe; but that wasn't what life had taught him.

Life had shown Athos the people who were supposed to love him, such as his parents and his wife, merely used him to further their own goals and ambitions. Why should he expect anything else from a disparate bunch of musketeers; a child of the streets, a womanizing, wanna be priest, and a farmer's son? Why should he trust them? Why should they be different? What did they want from him and what did a drunken fool, such as he, have to offer in return?

No, he finally decided. He would shut them out as he always did; the exact opposite of what Aramis had admonished him to do at the river. None-the-less, it was the safe thing to do; no one else should be hurt because of him. His dark soul, his sins, shouldn't spill upon his brother's shoulders.

As Athos raised his head to ask the other musketeers to leave, Porthos caught his eye and implored him. "Please, brother."

Somehow, those two heartfelt words from Porthos unraveled him. Here was a man's whose courage, kindness, and generosity were above reproach. A man who by all rights should have a major grudge with the world, but instead found it in his oversized heart to forgive. A man's whose courage was ten-fold compared to Athos' own.

Aramis and d'Artagnan remained absolutely quiet, sensing Athos was at a critical junction in the road. It seemed that Porthos was going to be the only one who might be able to get the skittish man to take a first step on the path of redemption.

Athos' eyes remained firmly downcast and Aramis swiftly glanced over at the street fighter and nonverbally encouraged him to try to draw out his forsaken brother.

Rising from his chair, the powerful musketeer moved over to the bed and sat next to the forlorn musketeer. With a firm, but tender hand, he reached over, cupped Athos' chin and gently compelled the man to raise his head and look at him. "Trust us, Athos," he rumbled, his voice tinged with compassion.

Athos studied those dark orbs, which were beseeching him to trust, and a slight frown appeared on his face as he caught his lower lip in his teeth. Though Porthos let his hand drop from Athos' chin, the swordsman continued to stare at him with rapt concentration. "It was hell," Athos finally dragged out from the depths of his soul.

Breaking eye contact, Athos repositioned his body so he could lean against the wall behind his bed for support. He suspected he was going to need every ounce of energy and courage left in his worn body to get through this ordeal. He had a sinking feeling that baring his soul to his brothers, three people he realized he loved more than life itself was going to be exhausting.

With forced levity, he said, "No doubt I will be having nightmares for a long time about the events that occurred on the Vicomte Lemione's estate. I will tell you what transpired, so when I wake you up in the middle of the night, screaming, you'll know why and perhaps find it in your hearts to forgive me."

Aramis rose from his chair and walked over to the bed and sat upon it. "You are already forgiven and you don't have to do this, Athos, if you don't want to. It won't change our opinion of you. Like I told you, unconditional love," Aramis said kindly, capturing the anguished green eyes with his brown sympathetic ones.

"No judgement," d'Artagnan tagged on as he moved his chair closer to the crowded bed. Athos was now surrounded by his brother's and he drew comfort from their presence.

"Well, I wanna know what those bastards did so I can enjoy the fact their souls are rotting in hell," Porthos ferociously declared, slamming his fist against his muscular leg.

A ghost of a smile floated on Athos' lips. "It is not so much what they did to me. That is of no consequence. Yes, their cruelty left some scars but those will fade with time into the patchwork quilt that is my battle worn skin."

"It's not your physical being we're concerned about," Aramis pointed out. "But rather the scars they left on your soul and how we can help you heal them."

Athos snorted and looked down at his chest where he once wore the locket of forget-me-knots. "What are a few more scars on my soul?" He gave a bitter laugh. "It makes no matter."

"It matters. Ain't nothing wrong with your soul. Nothing more than ours," Porthos said with a little hand gesture that encompassed everyone in the room. "Though," he continued with a slight grin, "maybe that isn't sayin' much."

"Speak for yourself," Aramis said, in a haughty tone. "I like to think I have a very enlightened soul."

Porthos grimaced, as he looked at Aramis. "Not according to the laws of the church as I know them."

"Interpretation, dear Porthos. Interpretation."

"I do believe we are supposed to be listening to Athos," d'Artagnan reminded his other two brothers.

"Right. Sorry," Aramis contritely murmured.

Athos had been relieved when the focus in the room had shifted away from him. But now, all three eyes were expectantly fixed once more upon him. Reaching down deep inside for courage, he started his tale. "It was the anniversary of Thomas' birth and though it has been five years since he died, it hit me especially hard this year."

Athos' gaze fell upon the youngest musketeer and he forced himself to be completely open and honest. "I think because of you, d'Artagnan. You remind me of what Thomas could have been had he not been murdered by my wife. With that single knife thrust, Anne stopped Thomas' heart and my own."

Closing his eyes, Athos took a few deep, steadying breaths before continuing. "Like many times since my brother's death, I sought to drown my sorrows with alcohol, not caring about the consequences; whether or not I would wake to see another sunrise..." he gave a negligent wave of his hand to finish the statement, indicating it really made to difference to him.

"But I did wake to find myself in the back of a wagon on an unknown journey. Opportunities to escape really didn't present themselves and to be honest, I wasn't looking for them. In chains, in the back of a wagon to hell, perhaps I was where God wanted me."

"You are too hard on yourself, Athos," Aramis admonished. "God is kind and compassionate."

Athos rounded on his friend, his voice harsh. "That hasn't been my experience."

Aramis reached over and placed a hand on Athos' knee. "He never gives us more than we can bear."

A sour laugh escaped Athos' lips. "Then your God most have me mixed up with someone else, for I can't bear what life has left me."

"You are strong, brother. Stronger then you know. You just need to let your friends help, now and then."

Athos turned his head to study Aramis' face, as if searching for the truth in his the words. Aramis wasn't sure if the troubled musketeer found what he was looking for as Athos averted his eyes and continued with his story.

"The Vicomte ran his estate, like all noblemen, using servants. The only difference was he paid more, than most, for their services. But little did the servants know they were making a deal with the devil. Upon their arrival at his estate, each retainer man, woman, or child was assigned a number; mine was twenty-four. It was a number you lived…and died by."

Swallowing hard, Athos broke from his recitation to stare across the room, lost in thought for a moment. "It came as a surprise," he slowly began again, "that even though these people knew what this number meant they chose to stay anyway. But, as it was explained to me, the servants that stayed were willing to take the risk because the wages were very generous."

Athos glanced over at their religious leader again. "Kind and compassionate God? What kind of God forces a person to make a decision such as that? How does a compassionate God let a man like the Vicomte exist?"

"He doesn't exist anymore," Porthos reminded Athos.

"But his damage is already done! The innocent lives lost!" Athos disdainfully spat. "A kind and compassionate God would never have allowed Lemione to take his first breath."

In what he prayed was a soothing voice, Aramis explained, "God's ways are mysterious to the likes of mere mortal men such as you and I. That is what faith is about, my friend. Trusting and believing God has an ultimate plan for all of us, even when we can't fathom it."

"Aye. Trustin' that God knows what he is doing, even if it seems like he don't," Porthos agreed. "God puzzles me, too, Athos. But like a punch, you just gotta roll with it."

Athos couldn't help smiling at Porthos' down-to-earth religious views.

"The number," d'Artagnan reminded Athos trying to get him back on track. "What exactly was its purpose?"

Athos heard the boy's query but didn't quite answer it in a straight forward fashion. "Of the eight of us that rode in the wagon, four went up to the main house and the others, including me, were taken to the prison you witnessed. Housed in that fortress were all the men that fought the duels for the Vicomte and his neighbor's sick pleasure, along with guards and a few trainers. You met Jehan, the head trainer."

"The weasel I killed in the grove," Porthos confirmed and Athos nodded his head in concurrence.

"Yes. I owe you a debt of gratitude for removing that man from this earth," Athos sincerely thanked his brother.

Porthos gave him a small head nod of his own. "Anytime."

"I was housed with the rest of the fighters in cells, though the doors were never locked. We had the freedom to go as far as a common room. But after that, we were locked away from the world. Each day after the morning meal, we were taken through a locked tunnel to a practice area to spar. I kept aloft from my fellow prisoners, as well as hid my skills with a blade, which…" the edge of Athos' lips curled with irony, "turned out to be a lot harder than you'd imagine. Unskilled fighters are… unpredictable. One of them threw his sword at me."

"You mean dagger," d'Artagnan sought to clarify. "That doesn't seem that unusual."

Cocking his head sideways, Athos corrected the boy. "No. I mean sword. Apparently, he lost his grip on it and it flew through the air and smacked me in the face." Athos reached up a finger and traced the faint scar on his cheek. "The second time he did it, I was better prepared," he drily assured him.

Mention of the cut Athos received on his face, made Porthos think of another injury he had seen on his friend, during their first night in the woods. "Those scars. On your back. Whip marks they were. Why?"

Wincing, Athos bowed his head and studied his hands, making his hair falling forward to obscure a portion of his face. "I was not the…model prisoner and I was taught the error of my ways."

Next to him, Porthos vibrated with anger and he fought to keep his emotions under control. How dare someone whip his brother like a common criminal. "Was it Jehan?"

Giving a little one shoulder shrug, "Him, his henchman. It doesn't matter. It is in the past. Though was it the first step, which led to the death of the servant boy?" Athos rhetorically asked.

"A servant died because you were whipped?" d'Artagnan questioned, trying to understand what happened to his mentor in that horrifying prison.

Raising his head, his brothers could see the tears glistening in Athos' despondent green eyes. The melancholy musketeer stared off into the distance, as if he forgot the existence of anyone else in the room. "He showed me kindness. Brought me water, rags, food, and even a salve his mother made to help heal my wounds. His mother, how she must have cried when she found out I killed him."

Unable to keep the consternation out of his words, d'Artagnan whispered, "You killed him?" It earned him dark glares from Aramis and Porthos and immediately the boy felt contrite. "I didn't mean it that way, Athos," he hastily apologized.

"No. You are right. I did kill that servant," Athos said matter-of-factly. "Those numbers I mentioned? His was the one drawn when I refused to fight. So yes, I killed him."

With a long suffering sigh, Aramis ran a hand over his forehead, pushing back his errant curls. "I'm not following."

Athos turned his head to stare at Aramis, capturing his eyes as he told how everything was connected. By the time Athos was done, Aramis wished he had remained quiet.

"The Vicomte liked to kill and came up with an interesting way to do it. You know about the duels and I told you every servant had a number assigned to him or her. On the morning of the fight, the Vicomte would draw a number and that servant would be invited to watch the duel. If the Vicomte's fighter won, the servant returned to tell his friends what a marvelous event he had witnessed. If the Vicomte's fighter lost…"

Athos halted for a moment to regain his composure, which had started to fray. With determination, he forced down the tide of emotion that was threatening to overwhelm him. After a few steadying breaths, he picked up his tale.

"You saw the grove," he said, his voice flat, his eyes dark and muddy. "When the Vicomte lost a duel he took the servant, whose number was drawn, to that grove, tied them to the post and shot them point blank in the head. He…enjoyed doing it."

Bowing his head again, Athos went on with his tale as silent tears slid down his face. "My first duel, I refused to fight. I thought I was so damn clever, dancing about that ring. Finally, I annoyed the audience, the other nobles, and Vicomte so much with my antics that the 'win' was awarded to the other fighter." With a contemptuous laugh, Athos said, "What a conceited ass I was thinking I had gotten the better of the foolish Vicomte. As it turned out, the only fool that day was me."

Athos dashed the back of his hand across his face before raising his head and sweeping his red-rimmed eyes over each of his brothers. "After the fight, I was taken to the grove by Jehan. There, tied to the post, was the servant boy, the one that had been kind to me, the ones whose number had been drawn that morning. I stood and watched as the Vicomte shot him in the head as if he were nothing more than an animal. I couldn't do anything to stop it. That time had passed."

Athos face hardened as he continued to speak. "When I first was placed in that prison and learned that the Vicomte expected us to fight other humans for his pleasure. I vowed I wouldn't be a part of that travesty. How stupid I was."

"Athos. You didn't know what Lemione would do," d'Artagnan cried out trying to get the man to understand it wasn't his fault.

Athos ignored the boy. "After the grove, I was made to understand that every time I lost, a servant would die."

His brother's cringed, knowing that was the perfect threat to make Athos fight. They had neatly found his Achilles' heel.

"So I made a new vow, no more servants would die. I began training the other fighters so they could be successful in the ring. I didn't let anyone or anything interfere with my concentration when I was dueling. Not winning was not an option. Some of the other men began to resent my rise through the ranks from the worst fighter to the best."

"The knife wound on your side. The one that nearly killed you," Aramis asked. "Was that from one of the other prisoners?"

A curt nodded followed Athos response. "Henri and Charles."

Porthos' dark eyes narrowed as he unconsciously cracked his knuckles. "And they are still alive?"

"Regrettably, I suppose," Athos concluded. "But perhaps they too were victims of circumstance."

"I'll make them victims of circumstance," Porthos menacingly growled. "No one attacks my brother and gets away with it."

Athos tried to force a small smile on his face to show Porthos he appreciated his sentiment, but he failed miserably as he thought about the final portion of the tale he had to relay. "As you know, the Vicomte also liked to bet on the fights and soon, I became too good and no one would bet against me. Lemione kept raising the number of people I had to fight in the hopes it would entice someone to bet against me."

His brother's now understood why Athos was in such bad shape, mentally and physically, when they found him. It must have been grueling to have to battle constantly against such great odds, while being mentally tortured by the thought of what would occur if he lost.

"Then you came to rescue me. And four more servants died because of me." Athos pinned each one of his brothers with an accusatory glare as he admonished them. "You should not have interfered in that fight."

D'Artagnan gave him a look of incredulousness. "You would have died!"

"It was my choice to make," Athos shot back at him, his eyes flashing in anger. "Because of my escape those four servants were killed. You were there! In the grove. You saw it! How can you condone my freedom at the cost of their lives?"

"They would have died, no matter what. There was nothing you could have done to stop their deaths," Aramis tried to reason with him.

Athos glared at Aramis, refusing to believe his statement. "I could have tried. I could have…"

"Died," Porthos interrupted him. "The only thing you could have done is died. I was there. I know. You were down on the ground, unconscious thanks to the blow to your head from that coward, Jehan. And that other fighter was going to kill you. Make no mistake about it. Look at me, Athos!" Porthos commanded and Athos obeyed. "Don't ever ask me to stand by and watch you slaughtered." The larger man's voice broke and he suddenly looked away. "I can't do it."

Aramis reached over and placed a hand on Athos' leg. "By saving you, Athos, justice was served. You killed Lemione. Justice was served," he repeated.

Athos dropped his weary, aching head to his chest. He felt one, than another hand placed on his shoulders to offer comfort.

"What happened is really no different than what happens in a war. Innocents are often caught up in the greater struggle. You did your best, my brother, to protect as many as you could. The rest," Aramis sighed and crossed himself with his free hand, "we acknowledge their deaths, we pray for their souls, and we do our best to stop it from ever happening again. The deaths of those we believe as innocents will haunt our nightmares on our darkest nights and so they should. If we forget why we fight, who we fight for, then we too will be lost."

Aramis saw Athos had raised his head and was looking at him. "But we can't let their memories pulled our souls into the depths of hell. We must mourn, for we are but human, then we must rise and fight once more against the evil that haunts this world."

Taking a chance, Porthos put pressure on Athos' shoulder, drawing the man to his chest. Athos acquiesced without a struggle, burying his head in his brother's leather clad chest, as heart-wrenching sobs escaped him. Aramis rose from the bed and then reached down and swung Athos' legs onto the mattress. Porthos remained cradling Athos upper body until he felt his brother drop off into an exhausted sleep. Then, gently as a mother would lay her infant down for a nap, Porthos maneuvered from the bed, laying Athos on his side to sleep.

The three musketeers made their way over to the table in the room, uncorked the wine bottle sitting up on it, and poured a generous amount in three glasses.

"He's going to be all right?" d'Artagnan half asked, half stated. He wanted to believe his mentor could rise above his terrible ordeal.

"He's always going to carry the scars from this encounter, the physical and mental ones," Aramis replied pragmatically, as he sipped his wine. "But, I believe with our love and support he will move on."

Porthos drained his glass of wine, sat back in his chair and worriedly ran a hand through his tight curls. "He still scares me, Aramis. He's good at looking out for everyone else and sucks at looking out for himself."

"A truer statement you have never uttered, my friend," Aramis whole-heartedly agreed. "But that is why he has us to watch his back and save him from his own folly."

"Aye, well that is a mighty big job," Porthos replied as he reached over and refilled his glass. "But I suppose someone has to do it."

A little while later, they rummaged through Athos' chest and found the spare blankets and pillows he had stashed away for night such as this when they all ended up in his room. They arranged themselves on his floor and soon had dropped off to sleep.

In the morning, d'Artagnan and Porthos woke first and went to scour up some food, returning with a basket from the kitchen, which they placed on the table and unpacked.

Aramis' nose twitched at the smell of freshly baked bread and he soon rose from his spot on the floor and wandered to the table to claim a chair. A short while later, they heard a stirring from the bed and looked over to see a rather disheveled Athos staring at them.

"We figured you would be hungry since you missed dinner last night. Or did you and Roger stop for a bite to eat on the way home?" Aramis quipped acknowledging that Athos was awake, if just barely. Even when he wasn't hungover, Athos was not a morning person. The only response he received from Athos was a noncommittal grunt.

Porthos snickered before adding his own witticism. "I know you don't date much..."

"Like at all," Aramis snuck in.

"...but I didn't realize that your only option was Roger," Porthos finished, his face a mask of grave concern. "That's kind of sad." Then with a grin, he took a large bite from the piece of bread he was holding.

"Really sad," d'Artagnan chimed in around a mouthful of cheese. "Of course, there was that almost date with Cometsse de Larroque. Though if I recall correctly, she asked you out and then was arrested so I'm not sure that counts as a date."

"I wouldn't talk, Mr. Puppy-dog-eyes chasing the draper's wife," Porthos reminded him as he swallowed the last of his food.

D'Artagnan grew a trifle indignant and his cheeks flushed. "Well at least I didn't sleep with a widow to raise money."

Athos watched as his two brothers' rose, stood toe to toe, and heatedly argued, nearly coming to blows. Athos sighed, rose from his bed, and wandered over to sit by Aramis at the table. "Remind me why I want to hang around you guys?"

Aramis laughed and clapped a hand on Athos' shoulder. "Because we love you and we are good for you. And we forgive and forget. See," he gestured towards Porthos and d'Artagnan, which now seemed to be embracing each other. "They are hugging. Forgiven and forgotten already. Best friends again."

"Are you sure they are not trying to strangle each other?" Athos countered, as the two men remained intertwined and some unusual grunting noises were being emitted from d'Artagnan's throat, which appeared to be wrapped in Porthos' meaty hand.

Aramis reached over and poured Athos a glass of wine before raising his own glass to his lips. He contemplated the two grappling musketeers again, as he drank. Perhaps Athos had a point. This was a rather prolonged hug. However, he decided to stay optimistic. "Do you see any blood?" he asked cheerfully.

Athos answer was cautious and dubious at best. "No. Not yet."

"So there you have it. Hug. Manly embrace. Brotherly love," Aramis declared sipping his wine again.

Athos took a drink from his own glass, letting the ruby, red liquid slide down his parched throat as he continued to study his 'hugging' brothers. He winced when a successful punch to the groin landed, which was followed by a very loud moan. "Is that still hugging?" Athos inquired politely of Aramis, as the moaning grew in intensity.

"Is there any blood?" Aramis asked again.

"No," Athos returned. Or at least there wasn't any blood that he could see from his position.

The congenial smile remained on Aramis' face. "Still hugging then."

Aramis and Athos sat and watched Porthos and d'Artagnan exchange manly hugs for another five minutes. Finally exhausted, the two 'huggers' dropped into chairs, panting.

"All done hugging?" Aramis asked courteously as he poured two more glasses of wine and positioned them in front of the tired men.

Porthos gave him a quizzical look. "Huggin'? We wasn't hugging. We were fightin'."

With absolute certainty, Aramis said, "No, you were not."

Porthos tilted his head to the side, his face, and voice mirroring his disbelief. "Yea. I'm sure we was fightin'."

"Was there any blood?" Athos asked, figuring he might-as-well join in the fray.

"Blood?" Porthos echoed, giving Athos a queer stare.

Athos sighed, as if he were explaining something to a very small child. "Did...you...draw...blood?"

Porthos and d'Artagnan looked at each other, glanced down at themselves, then over at Aramis and Athos, who were sitting there smugly drinking their wine. "No. There's no blood."

"We'll have to wait to see the next time I pee," d'Artagnan muttered under his breath.

"Since there is no _visible_ blood, therefore it was not fighting. It was hugging," Aramis empathetically declared in a tone that also said end of discussion.

"I'll have to keep that definition in mind, next time I play with the Red Guards. Wouldn't want to be caught hugging them when I was supposed to be fighting them. I'll be damn sure I draw blood." Porthos turned away from Aramis to query the rest of his companions. "Remind me why we hang out with him?"

D'Artagnan shrugged, as Athos muttered, "Exactly, my question."

"Because gentlemen," Aramis began as he rose to his feet, glass in hand to make a toast. "You love me. And I love you."

The other three shared a glance between them then collectively rose with their own wine glasses.

"I can drink to that," Porthos declared reaching out to clink glasses all around.

They drank and then d'Artagnan offered up the next toast. "To Athos' safe return. He was sorely missed!"

They all drank and then Porthos offered up a new toast. "To stupid bandits and even stupider Red Guards who keep us employed."

After a laugh, they drank again before all eyes in the room turned to Athos, for the final toast.

"To my brothers," he began, his sincere green eyes sweeping each one of them. "For never being afraid to point out to me the errors of my ways. For safely seeing me home, when I can't find my way. For always showing me great friendship and love, more than I have right to ask. You are my family, more so than anyone else has ever been and I love you."

Athos took a sip of his wine, and then bowed his head, overcome by the moment.

"Pretty powerful speech for a man of few words," Porthos remarked, his own voice gruff with emotion.

"There is only one thing that can be said, after such a speech," Aramis declared.

"Let's eat? I'm starving," Porthos suggested before Aramis shook his head no.

"Fetch the Doctor?" d'Artagnan tried. "Surely Athos must not be right in the head."

"How about get the hell out of my room," Athos mocked growled at them.

"All wrong gentlemen. The _only_ thing that could possibly follow such an elegant speech as that is...right back at you!" Aramis triumphantly declared.

"You want to follow Athos' heart-felt speech with such a vernacular colloquialism?" Porthos questioned, once again surprising his fellow musketeers with his adroit usage of language.

Aramis shrugged. "Do you have a better suggestion?"

Before Porthos could reply, d'Artagnan piped up. "I do. How about 'all for one and one for all'."

"That works too," Aramis agreed.

They all moved around the table to join d'Artagnan in a group hug. When they released each other, Porthos glanced down at this torso, before looking over at Aramis.

Somehow, Porthos managed to keep a straight expression on his face. "No blood. So that was a hug, right Aramis?"

"Why do I want brothers?" Athos muttered to himself as he slumped into his chair and poured another glass of wine.

"Because we LOVE you!" was the three way reply.

Athos raised his glass, gave his little head tilt of acknowledgement, and downed his glass in a single breath. "Yes. Keep reminding me of that."

The End

 _A/N: Sadly or happily, we come to the end of this tale. For fifty days you have hung in there with me. I posted and you read. Amazing. Your reviews, follows, and favs have been inspirational and I thank each and every one of you who took time. If you have it in you for one last review, I'd love to know what you thought of the ending._

 _And last, but not least, a shout out to my betas that did an awesome job correcting and teaching me a few things along the way._


End file.
